Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 143

The third Nolan brother

You’ve probably heard of Christopher Nolan. Acclaimed writer and director of films like Memento, Interstellar, Inception, and the three Dark Knight films.

You may know that Christopher Nolan has a brother named Jonathan who is a writer too. Jonathan Nolan has co-written the films Memento, The Prestige, The Dark Knight Rises, and Interstellar, and he is the creator of HBO’s Westworld.

But did you know that Jonathan and Christopher have an older brother? Unlike his filmmaking brothers, Matthew has chosen a slightly different path in life.

Matthew Nolan is allegedly an assassin, hired to retrieve a considerable sum of money on behalf of a less-than-reputable client, and in the process, allegedly killed his victim.

Then, in 2010, while awaiting extradition to Costa Rica for trial, he also attempted to escape prison. During an inspection of his cell, guards discovered a 31 foot long rope made up of bed sheets, as well as a harness, razor, and clip designed to unlock handcuffs.

So not exactly filmmaking.

The United States ultimately refused to extradite Matthew Nolan to Costa Rica for the murder trial, citing insufficient evidence, so while the Costa Ricans still very much consider this an active case and want Matthew Nolan to stand trial, he remains a free man today after having served 16 months for the escape attempt.

He’s free from prison, at least.

Perhaps not quite so free from the unavoidable comparisons to his two world famous filmmaking brothers. Must make for an interesting Thanksgiving Day meal.

The thing I wonder about most are the parents of the Nolan brothers.

Two of their sons have left an indelible mark on this world and the history of cinema. They are highly respected, award winning, and exceedingly wealthy. Both are married to women who collaborate with them on filmmaking. They have ascended to the pinnacle of Hollywood’s most elite filmmakers.

Their parents must be so proud.

Their third son is an alleged contract killer who is wanted for murder in another country and has attempted to escape prison.

As a parent, are you thinking that two enormously successful sons make up for the alleged murderer in the family?

Do they credit themselves for some of Christoper and Jonathan’s success?

Do they blame themselves for Matthew’s seemingly troubled past?

How does a parent feel when some of their children succeed in life while others stumble? Are parents able to disentangle themselves from the fates of their children, or will they always feel some ownership over the paths that their children choose?

How do you square that circle?

Elysha and I don’t need Clara and Charlie to become world famous in their chosen professions, but neither one had better become contract killers if they know what’s good for them.

I don’t need that level of stress in my life, and I know Elysha needs it even less.

 

Blah blah blah

After writing about the impact my assistant basketball coach had on me last week, I heard from many, many people with similar stories.

A teacher told a student that she had excellent handwriting. Suddenly, she started writing more.

A swimming coach said a boy was faster than he thought. Then he swam faster.

A high school math teacher told a student that she was college material. Two days later, she ventured into the guidance office for the first time.

I was so happy to hear these and many other stories.

I’m a big fan of talking to students. Persistently and incessantly.

Here’s the thing:

You need to keep talking because you never know what will stick.

Years ago, my principal, Plato Karafelis, came to me in May, informing me that a fourth grade student who was becoming unmanageable in another teacher’s classroom was being moved into my class.

“He’s going to be your student next year, so get to know him a little early.”

I didn’t love the idea, but it made some sense. Plant the troubled student amidst students a full year older than him for the last month of school, and perhaps something good will rub off. At the very least, he’ll probably be better behaved in a new classroom with a new teacher than he was at the present moment.

This decision alone was impressive. I’m sure it went against a million policies and procedures and was probably done without informing administration, because great leaders do what needs to be done, even if it means breaking the rules from time to time.

So for the next month, I tried like hell to reach this kid and make him understand the importance of focusing his life, working hard, and making every day count. I talked. Cajoled. Told stories. Asked questions. Listened. Glared. Browbeat.

I tried everything.

Then one afternoon, near the end of the school year, as I was trying to make this student understand the importance of returning to school in the fall with a more positive attitude, I looked across my classroom and saw one of my female students. She, too, had been a hell raiser in previous grades. I had heard stories about her for years. She had been like an angry tsunami, roaring through the school, wiping out everything in her path.

But fifth grade had been a turning point for her. Somehow, someway, she had turned her life around and become one of my most successful students.

In desperation, I called her over to my desk. “Listen,” I said, “I’m trying to get this kid to turn his life around. You turned your life around. Tell him how you did it.”

I didn’t expect much.

I couldn’t believe what she said.

“On the first day of school,” she began, “Mr. Dicks said that he had heard about me and how I behaved, but he said he didn’t care. He said I was a perfect student in his eyes, and as long as I worked hard and treated people kindly, I would always be perfect in his eyes. So I decided to be perfect.”

I was stunned.

Here’s the thing:

I have no recollection of ever saying those words. I don’t doubt that I said them or some variation of them, because I talk to kids constantly, incessantly, persistently, and endlessly, because you never know what will stick.

Those were not words of wisdom. They were just part of a numbers game. Say a lot. Keep saying it. Hope for the best.

I suspect that about 2% of what I say to kids ultimately sticks, which means I need to talk a hell of a lot in order to get enough to stick.

That “perfect student” came back to visit last year. She’s in college now, but during the pandemic, her school closed for a while, so one day after school, she came by with her boyfriend to say hello. I remembered her, of course. When I called out her name, she elbowed her boyfriend and said, “See, I told you he’d remember me!”

A couple of my current students at the time knew her, too. I had already told stories about her. Lots of them, in fact. She couldn’t believe that I was still talking about her more than a decade later.

She cried. I did, too.

I am not the best teacher in the world. Many of my colleagues design far better lessons than me. Many of them deliver those lessons with far greater precision and proficiency than me. Most work harder than me and are far more professional than me.

The thing I do well is talk. I tell stories. I give advice. I offer wisdom. I cajole and joke and browbeat and urge and share.

I talk all the time. Sometimes something sticks.

It’s an important thing for all of us who work with kids or who are raising kids to remember. Talk and talk and talk. Listen, too, of course, but say a lot of stuff.

An assistant basketball coach said a few things to me a long time ago, and I played my best basketball ever. More importantly, I came to understand the value to telling kids that you believe in them.

He’ll never know how well those words stuck.

I’ll never know how well most of my words stick.

But I’ll keep talking, hoping some will.

 

Written for adult, read by students

Texas News Today listed its top 10 Books Every Student Should Read: Fiction and Nonfiction

First on the list:

Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling

I’m thrilled. While I never envisioned Storyworthy for students, it’s now used in high schools, colleges, and corporate training workshops throughout the country and around the world.

Even more thrilling, my novel, Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, is used in middle schools and high schools across the country, including my very own daughter’s middle school.

She may actually be reading it next year.

It’s more than I could’ve ever imagined.

This, of course, is not nearly as exciting for Clara. Since I’ve spoken at her school and many of her peers are reading the book, she gets asked about me a lot.

News flash:

Middle school girls do not enjoy walking the halls of their school, continually hearing about their father.

Who knew?

Abduction? A concern. COVID-19? Not so much. Sensible? Of course not.

I was standing outside my school yesterday, listening as students talked about being vaccinated or preparing to be vaccinated. Based upon the chatter amongst students and the parents who have spoken to me, the vast majority of students at my school are getting vaccinated now that kids under the age of 12 are eligible.

I’m thrilled.

One child turned to me and asked, “What are the side effects of the vaccine?”

I opened my mouth, prepared to answer that even though I’m a teacher and am well informed on the subject, the best person to ask about vaccines is a  doctor, and of course, your parents.

But before I could get a single word out, another child said, “You don’t die! That’s the side effect!”

Damn good answer.

I don’t go into the numbers with these kids, but the truth is this:

Thankfully, very, very few children die from COVID-19, though the numbers are higher with the onset of the delta variant. We want kids to be vaccinated so that they don’t unknowingly spread the virus to friends, family members, or members of the community who are immunocompromised or unable to be vaccinated for legitimate medical reasons.

It’s also important to note that we have no idea how a COVID-19 infection may effect children in the future. The chicken pox virus, for example, can lay dormant in the body of a human being for decades before re-emerging to cause shingles in a person. Who knows what this coronavirus is capable of doing in the future?

If you can avoid being infected or avoid being infected multiple times, you should.

One more important fact:

Fewer than 700 children have died of COVID-19 during the course of the pandemic, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Every death of a child is a tragedy of enormous proportions, but also consider this:

Fewer than 100 children under the age of 18 are abducted by strangers in the United States per year. This means that abduction by stranger is less likely than death by COVID-19 for a young person, yet some parents spend their lives worried that someone is going to steal their child, not allowing their kids to play in the front yard or walk home from school. They track their children on their phones, lock their doors at all times, and in some cases never let their child out of their sights.

Yet these same parents won’t vaccinate their child, even though the risks of dying from COVID-19 are greater?

It makes no damn sense.

A child who has already been vaccinated against more than a dozen different diseases before the age of 2 can’t be vaccinated for one more potentially deadly disease? And the Pfiser and Moderna vaccines are MNRA vaccines, which means they quite literally add nothing to your actual body chemistry but simply train your body to fight the infection should it encounter the virus.

Yet still they resist. It makes no damn sense.

Perhaps they are worried that their child will become magnetic. Or they are concerned over the possibility of microchips in the vaccine. Or they worry that the vaccine isn’t safe after billions of people all over the world have received it already. Or maybe they are simply doing their own research – via Facebook, Newsmax, the Chinese-backed website also spreading conspiracies about JFK’s return, that lady at swim class who seems to know a lot, and that pretend doctor on the TV – and just haven’t completed their rigorous study yet.

Either way, it makes no damn sense.

Clara was vaccinated months ago as soon as she was eligible. Charlie was vaccinated on Saturday after a knock-down, drag-out fight over his fear of the needles.

The boy damn near lost his mind, and since I’m recovering from surgery, I was only able to minimally assist. Most of the muscle to hold him down came from Elysha. But in the end, he received the shot, and immediately after being stuck, he turned to me and said, “Oh, that’s it?”

The pharmacy where he was vaccinated was giving away gift cards to the traumatized parents of especially challenging children. No child that day was more difficult than Charlie. It’s not possible for any child to scream and squirm more than Charlie that day.

Yet we received no gift card.

Nevertheless, I can’t wait for the next one. Knowing that he’s fully vaccinated will remove a lot of worry from my mind.

Not so much the worry that if he gets COVID-19, he will end up in the hospital, though that worry (and that reality) do exist. Kids die from COVID-19. You’re kidding yourself if you pretend they don’t.

But more importantly, in the words of Charlie himself, “I just don’t want to be selfish and get anyone sick.”

He may be awful when it comes to needles, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders.

Life lessons from The Edge

I quite enjoy the 1997 film The Edge, starring Anthony Hopkins and Alex Baldwin. Written by the great David Mamet, it contains many excellent lines of dialogue, including these:

“A good plan today is better than a perfect plan tomorrow.”I wrote a whole chapter in my next book about this very idea.“What one man can do another can do.”
This is one of the mantras that I’m constantly reminding myself.

“I’m dying, and I never did a goddamn thing.”
This is my ceaseless, unending, greatest fear in life.

“Never feel sorry for a man who owns a plane.”
Solid.

“Did you know that you can make fire from ice?”A good reminder that the seemingly impossible is sometimes possible.In case you don’t know how:Shape a chunk of ice into a disk, then use the warmth of your hands to melt it into a smooth, round lens. Then, just like you might use a magnifying glass to start a fire (as I did many, many times as a Boy Scout), adjust the angle of the disk until the rays of sunlight shine through it onto some dry tinder.Behold. Fire from ice.Or, as was often the case as a Boy Scout, the smoldering pair of jeans of a fellow Scout, followed by a cry of pain and possibly a fist fight.

I passed on Bradlees and probably changed my life

Back in 1992, the now defunct Bradlees department store called me, hoping that I might consider a move from managing McDonald’s restaurants to launching eateries inside their Boston area stores.

Someone had apparently recommended me to them.

I took a meeting in their Braintree office, which went well. Being just 21 years old at the time, I really didn’t know what I was doing when I stepped into those corporate offices and was nervous. Having not yet attended college save some management classes that McDonald’s had paid for at a local college, I felt under-qualified and out of my depth. But I guess I talked a good game, because I was quickly passed onto a senior level manager for an interview, and when that went well, I was moved up the ladder to the next level of management for a final interview.

The executive walked into the room, sat down, and said, “Why do you want this job?”

I said something about looking for bigger and better opportunities and being excited about the idea of building something new. The man paused for a moment, then said, “Listen, Bradlees will be out of business in less than ten years. Have you seen Ames and Caldor? We’re no different. Our time is coming. This would be a terrible move for you.”

I was shocked. He was telling me that I would be better off working at McDonald’s. Advice rarely offered in this world.

But he was right. Ames and Caldor – two similar discount department stores – were going under. My roommate, Bengi, was working for Ames after college before a job opened up at The Travelers in Hartford, sending him (and eventually me) to Connecticut. Bengi knew that Ames was doomed. I knew that Caldor was teetering as well.

It made sense that Bradlees would be experiencing the same pressures.

So I thanked the man, shook his hand, and left.

Bradlees went out of business exactly ten years later.

In 1993, just a year after my interview, Bradlees added Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, and Dunkin’ Donuts items to stores that did not have eateries and to new stores constructed during that time.

Had I taken the job, it might have been obsolete less than a year later.

Oddly enough, remaining with McDonald’s would eventually lead to me to being arrest, jailed, and tried for a crime I did not commit. It would ultimately lead to my homelessness and an enormous pause in my attempts to enroll in college. Eventually, it would lead to an armed robbery that resulted in a lifetime struggle with PTSD.

Still, I’m happy that man convinced me to stay at McDonald’s that day. I suffered through 18 months of struggle and trauma – the toughest time of my life – but it led me to where I am today.

Also, by remaining with McDonald’s, I was well positioned when I arrived in Connecticut to take over the management of a store in Hartford while I attended college full time. The flexibility of that schedule, thanks to my extensive experience, made attending two colleges simultaneous and earning two degrees possible.

Also, the advice, I think,  was offered with the best of intentions. I think that man saw a very young man sitting across from him, about to step into a failing company, and suggested I go elsewhere.

It’s so interesting to think about how many random human beings unknowingly change the course of our lives with a small bit of advice or a gentle pushes in a new (or old) direction.

I don’t know his name or even if he’s alive today, but I owe that man a great deal. I may never meet Elysha had I taken that job.

For the record, Bradlees was named for Connecticut’s Bradley International Airport, where early planning meetings were held by the store’s founders.

So a really creative bunch.

The aforementioned Caldor was a combination of the names of the two founders Carl and Dorothy Bennett

Also not exactly inspiring in terms of their creativity.

But the prize goes to the aforementioned Ames, which began in 1958 when two Connecticut brothers, Milton and Irving Gilman, and Philip Feltman, opened their first store in the defunct Ames Worsted Textile Company mill in Southbridge. The Gilmans and Feltman simply used the old sign of the textile mill for the new business.

They just took the name of the previous business to avoid purchasing a new sign.

Discount retailers aren’t too picky when it comes to choosing their names.

 

The Japanese puffer fish has serious game

In ninth grade, I would buy ice cream from the school cafeteria for the girl who I liked in hopes of garnering her affection.

In tenth grade, I broke a water pipe, destroyed a portable eye wash, and placed cafeteria buns – complete with poetry and props – on the desk of a biology teacher who wore her hair in a bun in order to convince a girl that she and I were meant to be together.

When I was 22 years old, I tried to fight two guys simultaneously in a parking lot in College Park, Maryland, in order to impress a girl who I liked.

When I was 23 years-old, I drank an unprecedented amount of alcohol in hopes of getting a girl’s attention.

When I was 32 years-old, I asked a girl to brunch while she and I were both sitting in our cars at a stop light, hoping that a little daring might win the day.

You’ll be surprised to learn that none of these efforts yielded the desired results.

In the end, all I needed to do was meet the girl of my dreams, spend nearly two years teaching down the hall from her, slowly becoming her friend, waiting for her to be single, until one day, at long last, she liked me. Liked liked me, I mean. Playing the long game. My specialty. And knowing Elysha, destruction of property, tormenting teachers, massive amounts of alcohol, and fisticuffs would not have impressed her.Though the ice cream might have worked.

But the Japanese puffer fish puts everything I did to shame. What it does to attract the attention of a female counterpart is nothing shirt of astounding.

The video is about two minutes long, but you’ll be thinking about it for days.

I met a bunch of superheroes two weeks ago

Two Fridays ago, I had surgery to repair an umbilical hernia at Hartford Hospital.

Can I take a minute to talk about the nurses and related staff who took care of me that day?

The first was a gentleman who checked me in at admitting. It was 5:20 AM when I approached his desk and answered a few simple questions to confirm that I was in the right spot on the right day. The man smiled at me. Laughed when he couldn’t find my name on the list for a moment, filling me with momentary dread. Then smiled again and pointed to a small room to my left, where I met another nurse who asked me more questions about my reason for being at the hospital that day.

“We’ll take great care of you,” she said with a smile.

Smiles at the crack of dawn. A laugh. Given that Elysha couldn’t be with me because of the pandemic, it was much needed.

I was then sent to the fourth floor of the hospital where another nurse slowly and carefully explained how I would essentially need to get naked save a flimsy, fairly meaningless gown, and store my belongings in a bag.

Half an hour later, another nurse arrived to administer my IV. Being allergic to bees and suffering from a debilitating, negative feedback loop when it comes to needles, she was gentle with me. She asked me about my children. Told me about her three teenage kids. Laughed with me over the ridiculous things that children do. Commiserated over teaching teenagers to drive. Placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed, nearly bringing me to tears. Stopped, looked me in the eye, and said, “We are going to take such good care of you.”

I wish I could remember her name.

Then came another nurse, rolling a cart, asking me questions about medications and piercings and pacemakers and previous surgeries. Alcohol consumption and smoking and various diseases.

I’ve never smoked, don’t drink alcohol, and have never used an illegal drug. I’m not pierced, have no dentures, do not have a pacemaker, and as far as I know am disease free. She smiled. “You’re making this easy for me.”  She squeezed my forearm. “You’re going to be just fine.” She explained to me that my nurse, Juan, would be with me shortly.

Juan arrived with a smile. He cracked a joke. He told me that he’d be with me every step of the way. As he started pressing buttons on his computer, another nurse – someone related to anesthesia – came in to explain that in addition to general anesthesia, I would be receiving nerve blockers as well. Six injections into both sides of my belly.

My eyes widened.

Juan saw and immediately and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll have you good and sedated before any of that happens.”

Juan came closer. Asked me more questions. Cracked another joke. We talked about our families, He told me that he’s trying to raise his son the way that he wasn’t raised himself. He shared a story with me. Expressed some vulnerability. Squeezed my shoulder. Nearly had me in tears again.

Then things began to move quickly. Other people entered the room, introducing themselves and their departments. My gown was lifted. Something cold and wet hit my belly. “We’re washing your stomach,” Juan said. “That’s all.”

“We’re going to give you the nerve blockers now,” someone said.

“Wait,” I said. It was the first moment when I was legitimately worried. For a fleeting moment, I considered calling off the whole thing. Someone was going to cut me open soon. “This is crazy,” I thought.

“Don’t worry,” Juan said as if reading my mind. “I’m going to give you the sedative now. It’ll be like drinking three six packs in a minute.”

“I don’t drink,” I said. “Remember? Please don’t inject me before I’m sedated.”

“I got you,” Juan said. “Don’t worry. I got you.” I felt something warm rush into my arm through my IV. I saw Juan smile. That’s the last thing I remember.

When I awoke, I was in pain. An enormous amount of pain. The nurse asked what my pain was on a scale of 1-10. I said it was a 9 but it felt like a 10, but I wanted to leave room in case it got worse. She moved fast. Called for another nurse. Someone put their hand on my arm and squeezed. Somehow it made the pain go away a little. “”Don’t worry. We’ll get you feeling better in a minute.”

Ir took some time to get my pain under control, but they did. I rested a bit as nurses told me how well the surgery went and how well I did, even though I had done nothing.

I heard a nurse call Elysha from beyond the curtain. She spoke slowly and sweetly. I could hear her smile as she spoke.

When it came time to get dressed, I could barely move. A nurse helped me with my underwear and pants, turning her head for privacy. “I think you’ve seen everything already,” I said. “It’s okay. You can just help me get this on.”

We laughed. She did. Then she slowly, carefully, gently put on my socks and sneakers. Tied them while telling me how the pain would get better every day.

The nurse who helped me into the wheelchair was cheery. Downright happy. As she was preparing to help me into Elysha’s car, a shuttle bus cut in front and clipped the front bumper.

Of course.

She was unflustered. She continued to help me into the car before helping Elysha deal with the accident.

I’ve spoken to nurses twice since my surgery. I had to call once with a question about medication. I called the next day because I can’t feel my upper leg.

I still can’t. It’s annoying. Nerve compression. I didn’t expect my leg to go numb after surgery on my abdomen.

Each time, I spoke to a nurse who was happy to hear from me. Pleased to help me. Smiling as she spoke to me.

I received remarkable care during my stay at the hospital. Perhaps standard care by some measures, but here’s the thing:I never saw my surgeon. I’m sure he did a fine job slicing and dicing, but when it came to the people who made the day a lot less frightening and a lot more bearable, it was the nurses who were my heroes. These were my point people.More importantly. these are men and women who just waged a war against a deadly virus, and they continue to wage this war every day. They are tragically underpaid, almost certainly overworked, and undoubtedly under-appreciated. They are front line workers of the highest order, running into the equivalent of raging fires every day for months and months. Yet when I arrived at the hospital on Friday, they were still smiling. Still looking me in the eye. Still offering me a critical bit of human contact when I needed it most.

I don’t know how they do it.

These people are goddamn heroes. I couldn’t be more grateful to them.

Thank God for nurses.

Burger stupidity

If you find yourself wondering things like:

Why a small but annoying (and thankfully shrinking) segment of Americans refuse to get vaccinated for all of their stupid reasonsWhy anyone would suddenly question the spherical nature of the EarthHow seemingly reasonable people can spend so much time crushing digital facsimiles of candy on their phoneWhy anyone would continue to be a New York Jets fan

… remember this:

In the 1980s, A&W sought to compete with McDonald’s famed Quarter Pounder by releasing their own 1/3 Pound Burger for the same price.

The plan seemed unbeatable:

More meat. More burger. Bigger size. How could they lose?

However, the burger failed to sell.

The reason:

Americans didn’t understand that 1/3 of a pound was more than 1/4 of a pound. Focus groups conducted after the botched launch reported the same thing again and again:

4 is bigger than 3. Therefore 1/4 must be larger than 1/3.

I think this explains a lot.

I’m not saying that a significant percentage of the American population is stupid, But I suspect that a significant percentage of the American population disengages with serious academic study, rigorous learning, and deep thinking post high school or college.

They stop reading. They stop asking questions. They stop being curious.

I believe that there was a time in most American’s lives when they understood that 1/4 is smaller than 1/3.

For a fleeting moment, they understood this basic mathematical fact.

But if you decide that math or science or history or political science don’t matter anymore, or even worse, you decide the exciting, fantasy land of conspiracy theories and the mindless consumption of propaganda are more entertaining than asking yourself questions like “Does a black hole consist of matter?” or “Does condensation happen in the desert?” or “Is there an infinite number of decimals between every whole number?” (all questions Charlie has asked me this week), then the difference between 1/3 and 1/4 might just fall right out of your head.

Replaced by the benefits of discredited therapeutics, YouTube videos about faked Moon landings, and attempted insurrections at the Capitol.

This is one reason why A&W (which still exists) announced last week they they’ll be relaunching the famed 1/3 Pound Burger, but instead will be billing it as the 3/9 lb. Burger.

The 3/9 lb. Burger. For Americans who have given up on understanding basic fractional comparisons in favor of arguments about why climate change isn’t real and how 9/11 was a false flag operation.

 

Veterans Day 2021

Back in June, Charlie and I visited the local cemetery to wander the headstones, read the engravings, and piece together bits of history. It’s something we enjoy doing, even though doing so always enflames my ongoing existential crisis and brings great sadness to my heart.  Earlier this week, we returned to the same cemetery on a beautiful autumn day to plant flags for every person whose marker indicated that they had served our country in the armed forces.  It was a pretty glorious day.  We first returned to the stone marking Howard Ryder, Carpenter’s Mate, Third Class, who, after some research back in June, I learned was aboard the American troopship USS Henry R. Mallory on February 7, 1943 when it was torpedoed by U-402, a German U-boat off the coast of Iceland, killing 272 Americans, including Ryder, whose stone indicates he was lost at sea. Back in June, I wrote about the battle that resulted in Ryder’s death, as well as my research into his family that ultimately led me to the obituary of his mother, Minna, and mine and Elysha Dicks‘s donation to the town library in her name (as her 1962 obituary requested). After I planted a flag at Howard Ryder’s stone and thanked him for his service, Charlie and I scoured every inch of the cemetery, looking for markers indicating military service. We found more than 50 in all, including service men and women from the Revolutionary War, World War I and II, the Korean War, and Vietnam. My great-grandfather fought in World War I. Both of my grandfathers fought in World War II. My father fought in Vietnam. My brother was thankfully not required to fight in armed conflict, but he was a member of the US Army and was preparing to deploy to Kuwait during Operation Desert Storm when the conflict thankfully ended.  Watching Charlie plant those flags brought all of those men to my mind. Each one of them served our country in a time of war. On this Veterans Day, each one of them is in the forefront of my mind.  When we found a marker indicting military service, Charlie would ensure that it was clear of debris, then he would read the name and the branch of the military in which the deceased served. Then, as he planted the flag, we would thank the person for their service.  I have video of him thanking some of these men and women for their service in his deeply sincere, still boyish voice. It’s just perfect.  We also found the stone of Vietnam veteran Paul K Moser, who, like Howard Ryder, was lost at sea. Charlie and I plan on doing some research on Moser soon, like we did for Howard Ryder, in hopes of discovering who he was, how he died, but most importantly, to spend some time thinking about the man and remembering his service to our country. It’s the least we can do. Thank you to all the veterans on this day for your service to our country. You have not been and will not be forgotten.