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I don't think Elvis was ever in 'better voice' than on this--it's a 'chill-maker', perhaps even a 'tear-dropper'!
How fitting for 2009--perhaps we need the reminder,
so... please turn up your sound and click on below!
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If this doesn't give you chills,
you should pack up and move on to another country.
On June 8th I received an email from a friend in Elkhart stating . . .
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"This is the article Debbie Sullivan's (Debbie is Jim Sullivan's daughter from Rolla, Kansas) daughter wrote about her conversation with her Grandpa."
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I was so impressed with it, I emailed her back and asked who sent it to her, that I wanted
to get permission to put it on the Paradise Blog for the Fourth of July.
She responded by telling me who sent it and gave me her email address.
I then wrote to that friend and she responded . . . .
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"Debbie (Sullivan)________'s daughter wrote this lovely eulogy to her grandfather but I don't know her name or even Debbie's last name. Debbie is Jim Sullivan's sister (raised in Rolla) You might remember Jim & Aleta Sullivan. Aleta taught school in Rolla for many many years and Jim worked for Panhandle Eastern. They lived north of town but have relocated to somewhere far distant. I got the story from my Aunt Earlene (Ipson) Williams who is an old friend of Debbie. You might contact her to find Debbie or her daughter's address. Doubt that they would mind sharing the tribute with others but would be nice to credit her for the story."
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I didn't remember any of these people and thought I probably would not get this accomplished.
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However, my friend contacted the above people that she had mentioned and then I received an email from Jim Sullivan - the writer's Dad.
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I was then able to contact the writer - Carrie Schroeder - and told her how much I enjoyed and appreciated her tribute to her Grandfather and asked for her permission to use it on the Paradise Blog.
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She wrote back . . . . .
Hi there! I am so glad that you enjoyed my recollection of that day and of course, you have my permission to use the piece on your Paradise Blog. It was a very difficult piece to write (I usually stick with humor), but it was something that I just had to do. I started writing it as a discussion post for an online history class. I was trying to give the rest of the class some historical perspective as we were discussing the events that led up to the Pearl Harbor attack. As I began writing it, I was overcome with emotion. I didn't and couldn't stop until it was complete. I urgently needed to get that memory down on paper. The original page it is written on is a jumbled mess of crossed out words, crumpled edges, and lots of tear stained lines. Needless to say, it was an intense experience and one that I think I can only repeat once a year.
Hmmm...a little bit about me....well, I live in Sheridan Lake, CO which is about 30 miles from Tribune, KS. I am a 32 year old single mother of two wonderful boys; Caynen, who is 13 and Zane, who is 9. I've had a full and adventurous life. I've been a ski bum, a mountain biking fanatic, worked in real estate, ski area management, accounting/bookkeeping, farming, ranching, medical supplies, bartending, and managed a moderately famous rock band. After all of that something was still missing...my education. I dropped out of high school my sophomore year and have been pining for my college education ever since. I am proud and happy to say that I am back in school and pursuing my English degree so that I can teach...when I eventually grow up. Honestly, if I can figure out how to get away with it, I'd like to go to school for the rest of my life. ;)
I've attached pictures of the boys and I so that you can put names to faces.
Again, I'm touched and pleased you would like to use my work. I know my Granddad would be terribly proud.
Feel free to contact me if you have any further questions.
Sincerely,
Carrie Schroeder
As I have said before, we taught in Tribune after leaving Paradise and Kit Carson and before going to Elkhart. So this made it even more meaningful to me.
Here is Carrie's Tribute to her Grandfather - which I think is so fitting for the Fourth of July.
Infamy and Memory
By Carrie Schroeder in memory of her Grandfather
There are times, more and more frequent as I age, that I stumble along that overgrown path of my memories. When I was younger, memory lane was a clear path, free of debris and well marked. As the years go by, I find that there are far more stumbling blocks and access to those long held memories is far more difficult. I tend to walk along this path and get lost. The sign posts that used to guide my way have fallen to disrepair and over usage, no longer pointing a direct route.
But by chance, be it a scent, a song, or a history lesson, I find myself walking down memory lane with a clear destination. Today, the path was clearly defined. A history lesson led me directly through the tangle of memories and straight to a kitchen table with my Granddad.
It was an afternoon in November. The late autumn sun was shining through the windows making columns of light and dust. I had my notebook and pencil in hand, furiously trying to come up with a report for an 8th grade class. I had better things to do with my day. There were boys to call, friends to gossip with, and a mall to hang out in, but this report on WWII was due in two days and I hadn't even started.
My Granddad was living with us at the time. He was recovering from heart surgery, but more important he was fighting off a deep depression that started the day he was wheeled into the recovery room to find that his wife was two floors above him, dying. With Grandma gone, Granddad's care fell to Dad and me.
He sat across the table from me, thin and frail, hardly the man who let me drive the tractor just a few short years before. Yet, his eyes were steely and bright.
"What do you know about WWII Granddad?" And that is where it started. My pencil fell from my hand and I listened, awe-struck, to a man who lived through what was then the most brutal attack on U.S. soil.
He started by telling me how he ended up in Hawaii . Just an 18 year old kid, joining up so that he could go to college. He was an Infantry man, stationed at Schofield Barracks. He told me about his room and his locker. He described his friends and the awe a Kansas boy experienced on a tropical island. He smiled at the memory of the shock of color that surrounded him then. "It was nothing like the flat brown fields of Kansas . I was in a different world altogether."
On the morning of December 7, 1941, my Granddad was in his room. He said the first wave of bombs shook the building as though there was an earthquake. He ran outside to see the sky fill with smoke.
Confusion was rampant. None of those boys, let alone their commanders, knew what was taking place. The sounds of Japanese aircraft filled their ears and then just as quickly were gone. In their wake was the call of a thousand shearwater birds.
Granddad shook his head at this point of his recounting. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "It was the birds that got to me Carrie Ann. Their cries sound like babies screaming and they only cry at night. But it was daytime. All around me it sounded as though there were hundreds of babies screaming. I thought I was losing my mind. It was a nightmare. Those birds, Carrie Ann. It was those birds." He paused and collected himself. He shook his head again as if to clear his ears of the sound.
Granddad ran from the housing unit over to the armory. There was a mad dash of men clamoring to arm themselves. The smoke was so thick in the air; it made the morning look like night. Granddad was given two rifles. It was confusing and unorganized. Soldiers were running all about in circles.
The Japanese continued to bomb and moved from the harbor, inland. Everywhere men were running for cover and all the while the birds screamed their infant wail. And then abruptly, it was over.
Night fell and the lights were shut off, leaving the entire island under a blanket of darkness. The blackout silenced all but the birds, which gave away their position and wailed through the night, perhaps mourning the catastrophic loss.
I cried and cried that autumn afternoon. My Granddad was a survivor. And like the column of sunlight that marked the passage of that afternoon, my Granddad gave me the memory of his passage from boyhood to manhood.
Today I make that slow thoughtful walk from that kitchen table to a cemetery in Miltonvale , KS ... Through the mist of my tears, I can still clearly see the 7 young uniformed soldiers and the one stoic officer. An honor guard, charged with the duty of seeing Granddad safely to the other side.
His coffin was blanketed under the American flag. I have never before witnessed the extreme reverence that was before me that day. Slowly, methodically, and lovingly, that flag was folded and carried over to my family. "On behalf of the United States Army and the people of the United States , I present you with the flag that symbolizes the enduring freedom your father fought for. Thank you for his service. His memory is our legacy."
Pride and patriotism are words that are thrown around so carelessly. But I know Pride - I know it to my core. I felt it overwhelm me while the lonely refrain of "Taps" rang through my ears. I am intimate with Patriotism. It grabbed me and held me with every rifle shot as 21 pieces of my heart broke.
Pride and Patriotism are not just words or contrived emotions felt only for the purpose of stirring political speeches. They are the stuff kitchen table memories are made of. They are the sign posts along memory lane that assure me that while the path is overgrown, the memory of my Granddad is not lost.
This is Carrie
and her sons
3Caynen
and
Zane 4
Happy Birthday America
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