Mary Cronk Farrell's Blog, page 18
February 21, 2014
Stories Hold the Power to Connect Us
I'm starting to hear from people who've read review copies of PURE GRIT. It's amazing the connections people are making and I'm deeply touched by those who have shared their stories. One woman wrote that her mother's twin brother was reported missing after those last days on Corregidor, and throughout the war they never knew what had happened to him.
Much later in the war, her brother was wounded fighting in Okinawa. While recovering in a military hospital stateside, his uncle's name happened to come up in conversation and it turned out another patient had known him. In fact, the man had been on a life raft in the Pacific with him!
The two soldiers had been taken POW by the Japanese in the Philippines and put on a boat to Japan, where many prisoners were forced into slave labor. But this ship didn't make it. The Japanese transported the prisoners on unmarked ships and many of them were bombed by the United States.
Hell Ship Noto Maru The War Department had never notified the family officially that the uncle had died, but this man in the hospital relayed the story of how the man perished on the life raft in the Pacific and his body had been slipped into the sea.
This story is not unique. It could be told about thousands of young men POWs, but the pain of it is singular this woman who wrote me. Her father served in WWI, and her two brothers in WWII. The man who lost his leg in Okinawa, also lost his lively good cheer. It's hard not to ponder what might have been, had war not interrupted their lives. Click here for the story of a hell ship survivor.
We must ponder as well, the men and women coming home from war today. Not only what might have been, but what we as a community, as a culture, as a country, are doing to help them heal from the anguish of war. Has your family been touched by war? Have you seen healing happen?
I'd love to hear from you.
Much later in the war, her brother was wounded fighting in Okinawa. While recovering in a military hospital stateside, his uncle's name happened to come up in conversation and it turned out another patient had known him. In fact, the man had been on a life raft in the Pacific with him!
The two soldiers had been taken POW by the Japanese in the Philippines and put on a boat to Japan, where many prisoners were forced into slave labor. But this ship didn't make it. The Japanese transported the prisoners on unmarked ships and many of them were bombed by the United States.
Hell Ship Noto Maru The War Department had never notified the family officially that the uncle had died, but this man in the hospital relayed the story of how the man perished on the life raft in the Pacific and his body had been slipped into the sea.This story is not unique. It could be told about thousands of young men POWs, but the pain of it is singular this woman who wrote me. Her father served in WWI, and her two brothers in WWII. The man who lost his leg in Okinawa, also lost his lively good cheer. It's hard not to ponder what might have been, had war not interrupted their lives. Click here for the story of a hell ship survivor.
We must ponder as well, the men and women coming home from war today. Not only what might have been, but what we as a community, as a culture, as a country, are doing to help them heal from the anguish of war. Has your family been touched by war? Have you seen healing happen?
I'd love to hear from you.
February 6, 2014
What Keeps Hope Alive?
Hospital in Santo Tomas Prison Camp, Manila, P.I. When I started research for PURE GRIT—I wanted to know one thing. How did these women survive combat and prison camp? What kept them going for three long years never knowing if they would see their loved ones again? How did they keep hope alive?I discovered the different nurses had various ways of keeping their spirits up and coping with the challenges that came on almost a daily basis. But one thing they all had in common was a greater purpose.
They were strong, independent, adventurous women, but they were also caregivers. Their mission was to treat the wounded and sick, to save lives if they could and to bestow comfort on the dying. When they were captured POW and separated from the wounded soldiers in their care, they set up a hospital and cared for civilians in the prison camp who needed medical attention.
This purpose helped sustain the women. Though weak from hunger and diseased from malnutrition, they got up each morning and reported for duty.
Army Nurse Eunice Young wrote in her diary, “Our chief concern is food. People are actually dying of starvation….Haven’t the energy to write much for days…but we have to keep going to take care of the others.”
In November 1944, Navy Nurse Edwina Todd wrote that the hospital staff worried because they no long had strength to push the gurney used to move patients. “…carpenters were no longer able to make coffins, the grave-diggers to dig graves, the nurses literally pulled themselves up the stairs…When you bent to rub a patient’s back you wondered if you could straighten up again. You fell down a couple of times en-route to and from work.”
Navy Nurse Margaret Nash said, “We kept busy all the time and we didn’t have time to think about ourselves.”
I’m not a caregiver type and I doubt I will face the hardship duty these women did. But I have learned from them. They’ve inspired me to give thought to my own purpose. Not just broad overarching ideals like “make the world a better place” or “be loving and kind.” These nurses got down to the nitty-gritty of their mission, dealing with bodily fluids, sores that wouldn’t heal, children that cried and begged for food, and at one point, rats chewing on the dead bodies no one was strong enough to bury.
Working on a tough revision pales in comparison. On the other hand, writing well means cultivating difficult habits, like confronting what others shy from. Being still in a world of cacophony. Seeing the brokenness in a human life and letting it touch me.
It’s no good comparing another’s purpose. Each of ours will bring enough challenge to last a lifetime. But knowing your particular purpose and believing it is meant for you, will help keep hope alive in the tough times.
Congratulations to Brian Zender, a recent subscriber to my newsletter. Brian has won a copy of PURE GRIT. Subscribe before April 1, 2014 and you could win a Skype Author Visit. I'll vist your book group, school, library or club. Subscribe here.
January 31, 2014
Courage Comes in the Darkest Places
The core themes of my writing delve into the qualities of human courage and resilience. My stories are often set amid historical events which have required people to reach inside and find depths of strength they never knew they had. We can look back dispassionately at the trials of history and see that people survive great suffering and go on to find meaning and joy in life.
But sometimes the story intertwines with our own lives. It reaches out, clutches us and yanks us unbidden into a heartbreaking stream of events. We bob along trying to regain our equilibrium, but up is down and down is up and it seems a real possibility that we will drown in our sorrow.
A week ago my sister's husband fell on the asphalt of a cul de sac and bumped his head and he's remained unconscious. As my sister goes through these days of uncertainty and suffering, her courage and resilience have amazed me. Filled with anxiety and facing the possible death of her husband she has stood at his bed in the critical care unit and spoken words of love and encouragement in a calm, strong voice. In private she has let go into weeping and raging, then walked into the next room and shown her four young children a face of normalcy, sitting with them to fill pages with bright colored drawings, taking them to release their energy at McDonald's Playland, helping them make their small painted handprints on a canvas surrounding Daddy's large handprint.
I do not want to need courage like this. It's easier if courage is some noble action far removed from everyday life. And yet time after time we see that courage is wrought in our own personal dark places. We let down our defenses, our need to be in control, and we accept that pain is as much of life as joy.
Tell me your stories of courage. Whether large or small, the instances when we find our way to the light serve as inspiration for others.
PS-One more day to enter the drawing for a copy of PURE GRIT. Sign up for my newsletter before February 1st and you could hold in your hands one of the very first copies released! Plus, get a sneak peek at all new videos!
But sometimes the story intertwines with our own lives. It reaches out, clutches us and yanks us unbidden into a heartbreaking stream of events. We bob along trying to regain our equilibrium, but up is down and down is up and it seems a real possibility that we will drown in our sorrow.
A week ago my sister's husband fell on the asphalt of a cul de sac and bumped his head and he's remained unconscious. As my sister goes through these days of uncertainty and suffering, her courage and resilience have amazed me. Filled with anxiety and facing the possible death of her husband she has stood at his bed in the critical care unit and spoken words of love and encouragement in a calm, strong voice. In private she has let go into weeping and raging, then walked into the next room and shown her four young children a face of normalcy, sitting with them to fill pages with bright colored drawings, taking them to release their energy at McDonald's Playland, helping them make their small painted handprints on a canvas surrounding Daddy's large handprint.
I do not want to need courage like this. It's easier if courage is some noble action far removed from everyday life. And yet time after time we see that courage is wrought in our own personal dark places. We let down our defenses, our need to be in control, and we accept that pain is as much of life as joy. Tell me your stories of courage. Whether large or small, the instances when we find our way to the light serve as inspiration for others.
PS-One more day to enter the drawing for a copy of PURE GRIT. Sign up for my newsletter before February 1st and you could hold in your hands one of the very first copies released! Plus, get a sneak peek at all new videos!
January 16, 2014
Each Spider Web and Every Blade of Grass...
It’s been one of those days when nothing went as planned. Come to think of it, it’s been one of those weeks. Just five days before my manuscript was due at the publisher, I discovered a new piece of research. This detail means the beginning of my book must be totally rewritten. I had carefully crafted the beginning to set the tone and conflict for the story. And I was really looking forward to being done with this draft.
I’m sure you’ve had days like that, when all your plans go awry, or something you’ve worked hard at falls apart. It’s life. We know it, but we don’t like it.
This time instead of jumping right back into work, I’m taking a breather. Look at this photo I took. I find it really amazing and beautiful seeing the crystals of frost coating every blade of grass, even the spider webs. Nature clears my head. Pause for a few minutes and enjoy my pictures of Jack Frost’s handiwork.
Life is beautiful. Tonight as I write this I am grateful for too many things to count. Thanks for stopping by and sharing a few moments with me. I'd love to hear what you do when your day falls apart. What? That's just me? Oh, well, humor me.
I’m sure you’ve had days like that, when all your plans go awry, or something you’ve worked hard at falls apart. It’s life. We know it, but we don’t like it.
This time instead of jumping right back into work, I’m taking a breather. Look at this photo I took. I find it really amazing and beautiful seeing the crystals of frost coating every blade of grass, even the spider webs. Nature clears my head. Pause for a few minutes and enjoy my pictures of Jack Frost’s handiwork.
Life is beautiful. Tonight as I write this I am grateful for too many things to count. Thanks for stopping by and sharing a few moments with me. I'd love to hear what you do when your day falls apart. What? That's just me? Oh, well, humor me.
January 9, 2014
Yes, We Fight for Bread, But We Fight for Roses, too
This week in history working women took a stand--radical in 1912--they refused to take a pay cut that would bite into their daily bread.
Textile mills in Lawrence, MA employed mostly girls less than 18-years-old. Nearly all immigrants, they endured ethnic slurs and sexual harassment on the job. The mills were cold in winter, hot in summer; the machinery was dangerous, but even more perilous-the filthy, crowded mills were an incubator for tuberculosis. Up to 30 percent of the women would die of consumption before their 25th birthday.
Photo used with thanks to the Bread and Roses Centennial Committee and the Lawrence History Center. The Massachusetts legislature reduced the maximum workweek to 54 hours and the new law went into effect January 1, 1912. Mill owners promptly cut wages to make up the difference. They believed the girls and women were a malleable workforce, but underestimated the workers' resolve.
When women got paid, January 11 and discovered they'd been shorted, 14,000 workers walked off the job. The next week another 9,000 followed. They picketed the mills and marched in the streets.
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for - but we fight for roses, too.
~written in 1911 by James Oppenheim
One of my favorite authors, Katherine Paterson wrote a middle-grade novel entitled BREAD AND ROSES, TOO.
According to the Massachusetts Labor Commission, "...the lowest total for human living conditions for an individual...was $8.28 a week. Before the strike, a third of Lawrence families earned less than $7 per week.
During the six week strike police opposed the women with bayonets and clubs, one woman was shot, others threatened with arrest and many were blasted with fire hoses in freezing weather. They did not give in.
Management agreed to striker’s demands for a 15% pay raise, double pay for overtime and no retaliation against workers who had joined the strike. Unfortunately, over the next few years mill owners whittled away improvements in wages and working conditions, fired union activists and engaged spies to report on workers. A depression in the textile industry exacerbated the hardships.
These women and thousands of others fought the bitter battle for labor rights, one step forward, two steps back workers gained vacation, sick pay, the eight hour day and the 40 hour work week. Some gave their lives, like Fannie Sellins who I am writing my next book about. If you have the weekend off, you owe it those who've gone before. If you're working overtime, I hope you're getting paid plenty and that it's by choice.
Textile mills in Lawrence, MA employed mostly girls less than 18-years-old. Nearly all immigrants, they endured ethnic slurs and sexual harassment on the job. The mills were cold in winter, hot in summer; the machinery was dangerous, but even more perilous-the filthy, crowded mills were an incubator for tuberculosis. Up to 30 percent of the women would die of consumption before their 25th birthday.
Photo used with thanks to the Bread and Roses Centennial Committee and the Lawrence History Center. The Massachusetts legislature reduced the maximum workweek to 54 hours and the new law went into effect January 1, 1912. Mill owners promptly cut wages to make up the difference. They believed the girls and women were a malleable workforce, but underestimated the workers' resolve. When women got paid, January 11 and discovered they'd been shorted, 14,000 workers walked off the job. The next week another 9,000 followed. They picketed the mills and marched in the streets.
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for - but we fight for roses, too.
~written in 1911 by James Oppenheim
One of my favorite authors, Katherine Paterson wrote a middle-grade novel entitled BREAD AND ROSES, TOO.According to the Massachusetts Labor Commission, "...the lowest total for human living conditions for an individual...was $8.28 a week. Before the strike, a third of Lawrence families earned less than $7 per week.
During the six week strike police opposed the women with bayonets and clubs, one woman was shot, others threatened with arrest and many were blasted with fire hoses in freezing weather. They did not give in.
Management agreed to striker’s demands for a 15% pay raise, double pay for overtime and no retaliation against workers who had joined the strike. Unfortunately, over the next few years mill owners whittled away improvements in wages and working conditions, fired union activists and engaged spies to report on workers. A depression in the textile industry exacerbated the hardships.
These women and thousands of others fought the bitter battle for labor rights, one step forward, two steps back workers gained vacation, sick pay, the eight hour day and the 40 hour work week. Some gave their lives, like Fannie Sellins who I am writing my next book about. If you have the weekend off, you owe it those who've gone before. If you're working overtime, I hope you're getting paid plenty and that it's by choice.
History Matters: Author Explores the Makah Tribe Whaling Tradition
WRITTEN IN STONE by Rosanne Parry, a middle-grade novel featured on this blog in November has been judged a finalist for The Oregon Book Awards.The historical novel published by Random House is set on the West Coast of Washington State on the Makah Indian Reservation in 1920.
It is one of three novels chosen for the Leslie Bradshaw Award for Young Adult Literature. The other finalists in the category are THE THEORY OF EVERYTHING (Philomel Books) by Kari Luna and AMBER HOUSE (Arthur A. Levine) by Kelly Moore, Larkin Reed and Tucker Reed.
Award-winners will be announced March 17, 2014.
Here's my interview where Rosanne talks about the historical background of WRITTEN IN STONE.
To learn more about the Makah people and whaling check out the official Makah Tribal website here. To read more about Author Rosanne Parry, her books and teaching materials click here. For more History Matters videos check my YouTube Channel (still under construction).
January 3, 2014
Do Your Expectations Rule Your Life?
A college friend and I believed we had tapped great wisdom when we discovered the power of expectations. During our Saturday morning ritual re-hash of whatever party we had attended the night before, we noticed that whether we judged the party fun or a bust largely depended on how it had measured up to our expectations. High expectations=disappointing party. Low expectations=great party.
Several decades passed before I understood this concept applied equally to life as to college keggers. Still more years of acquiring wisdom (euphemism for finding a grain of meaning in the seemingly unbearable pains of life) has taught me the most dangerous expectations are the ones you never knew you had until they were irrevocably dashed.
One could try to alleviate these surprises by imagining every conceivable danger, possible tragedy, personal loss and probable failure. Or maybe the key is to have no great expectations at all. An Eyore-life has a certain appeal.
Back in college, my friend and I knew the answer was not to continually lower our expectations, (especially when it came to dating). We decided the key was having “realistic expectations.” Find a sweet spot between accepting mediocrity and courting disappointment. Now, that is living. Not.
Expectations are normal and human, but for every joy there is an equal and opposite degree of suffering. Our expectations spring from the desire to protect ourselves from the suffering and park ourselves forever in the “joy” lot. Control is a tempting illusion.
Finding a way to deal with expectations is especially important for writers because so much of the success of a book is truly out of our control. A recent blog post on this topic tweeted around the web like a hummingbird in heat.
Author Jessica Spotswood writes honestly about the pain of having a book not live up to expectations and how she is finding strength to move ahead in her writing based on a greater purpose.
My own disappointments have caused me to ask the question-- is it possible to move beyond managing expectation to freeing myself from expectation?
Sometimes. Sometimes not. But my efforts in this direction have convinced me it’s a worthwhile goal. Expectations by nature focus on the future, a future for which there are no guarantees.
The only guarantee I have is the present. Taking my focus away from the future and directing it fully on the here and now frees me from the tyranny of expectation.
When I dwell on the writing itself, on the joy of putting words together on the page, the excitement of the plot developing under my fingers, the satisfaction of bringing myself to a great depth of emotion—that is living. It opens me to possibility, stretches my imagination and casts me into mystery. Even the frustrations of the writing process are preferable to day dreams of a bestseller.
Instead of worrying about whether or not my manuscript will get published, whether my book will be a success, or who’s definition of success to believe… the question becomes-- can I accept what is true now? Can I find meaning and purpose in this moment?
Stay tuned...
I'll be looking at these possibilities and I would love to hear about how you deal with your expectations.
Several decades passed before I understood this concept applied equally to life as to college keggers. Still more years of acquiring wisdom (euphemism for finding a grain of meaning in the seemingly unbearable pains of life) has taught me the most dangerous expectations are the ones you never knew you had until they were irrevocably dashed.
One could try to alleviate these surprises by imagining every conceivable danger, possible tragedy, personal loss and probable failure. Or maybe the key is to have no great expectations at all. An Eyore-life has a certain appeal.
Back in college, my friend and I knew the answer was not to continually lower our expectations, (especially when it came to dating). We decided the key was having “realistic expectations.” Find a sweet spot between accepting mediocrity and courting disappointment. Now, that is living. Not.
Expectations are normal and human, but for every joy there is an equal and opposite degree of suffering. Our expectations spring from the desire to protect ourselves from the suffering and park ourselves forever in the “joy” lot. Control is a tempting illusion.
Finding a way to deal with expectations is especially important for writers because so much of the success of a book is truly out of our control. A recent blog post on this topic tweeted around the web like a hummingbird in heat.
Author Jessica Spotswood writes honestly about the pain of having a book not live up to expectations and how she is finding strength to move ahead in her writing based on a greater purpose.
My own disappointments have caused me to ask the question-- is it possible to move beyond managing expectation to freeing myself from expectation?
Sometimes. Sometimes not. But my efforts in this direction have convinced me it’s a worthwhile goal. Expectations by nature focus on the future, a future for which there are no guarantees.
The only guarantee I have is the present. Taking my focus away from the future and directing it fully on the here and now frees me from the tyranny of expectation.
When I dwell on the writing itself, on the joy of putting words together on the page, the excitement of the plot developing under my fingers, the satisfaction of bringing myself to a great depth of emotion—that is living. It opens me to possibility, stretches my imagination and casts me into mystery. Even the frustrations of the writing process are preferable to day dreams of a bestseller.
Instead of worrying about whether or not my manuscript will get published, whether my book will be a success, or who’s definition of success to believe… the question becomes-- can I accept what is true now? Can I find meaning and purpose in this moment?
Stay tuned...
I'll be looking at these possibilities and I would love to hear about how you deal with your expectations.
December 26, 2013
What Would You Do...If You Weren't Afraid?
As the new year begins I settle on a slogan to help me form a positive habit over the next twelve months. For 2014 my slogan is a question. What would you do, Mary, if you weren't afraid?
I know this isn't an original thought. Do something everyday that scares you, is a similar quote I hear a lot attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt. But often with common sayings we don’t pause to consider the meaning.
If I've stopped to think about these sentiments at all, I've discarded them out of hand. I’m not scared of anything. Okay, I am scared of snakes, but I can live with that, and I see no reason to delve into it or sign up for a snake handling class. My life is fine, thank you. I don’t need to sky dive or swim with sharks.
But what hit me this week is that the things we are most afraid of are not exotic feats of nerve. They are things very close to us. Things we encounter without straying from our daily routine.
What would you do today, Mary, if you weren't afraid?
It took less than three seconds for me to realize the thing I’m most afraid of right now is resuming work on my novel. I legitimately put it aside to work on a manuscript already under contract, which will be finished soon. Very soon there will be no reason not to open that novel document and begin revising.
Why is that scary? You might ask, isn't that what you do every day, Mary? Write stories?
It’s scary because it matters so much. There in lies the clue to discovering what scares you the most. I guarantee, if you’re honest, it’s those few things that matter most to us that generate our fears.
The scariest things of all are love and creativity. Unconditional love strips us naked. Funny thing, it’s scary whether you’re giving it or receiving it.
Love never stands still. By nature, love grows. Growth is change and love insists we grow along with it. What true thing would you say to your loved one if you weren't afraid of hurt feelings? How would you interact with your children if you had no fear for the future?
Out of love for yourself, what would you stop putting off, if you weren’t afraid?
Like love, creativity urges us to change, to shake up the status quo. If we don’t think about it we realize our natural inclination is to try to keep things as they are, to hold on for fear of losing what we have. This effort toward stagnation strangles love and creativity.
It’s amazing what we will do to stop creativity from blooming, to stop love from flourishing. Sometimes all it takes is turning on the TV or checking Facebook, but sometimes we go to elaborate lengths to thwart intimacy. For creativity is nothing if not intimacy with our very selves. The key to intimacy is vulnerability. Getting back to that being stripped naked—that’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what must happen if I’m to finish my novel.
Is it love or creativity that scares you most? What would you do today, if you weren't afraid? Come on...tell me I'm not alone in this.
I know this isn't an original thought. Do something everyday that scares you, is a similar quote I hear a lot attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt. But often with common sayings we don’t pause to consider the meaning.
If I've stopped to think about these sentiments at all, I've discarded them out of hand. I’m not scared of anything. Okay, I am scared of snakes, but I can live with that, and I see no reason to delve into it or sign up for a snake handling class. My life is fine, thank you. I don’t need to sky dive or swim with sharks.
But what hit me this week is that the things we are most afraid of are not exotic feats of nerve. They are things very close to us. Things we encounter without straying from our daily routine.
What would you do today, Mary, if you weren't afraid?
It took less than three seconds for me to realize the thing I’m most afraid of right now is resuming work on my novel. I legitimately put it aside to work on a manuscript already under contract, which will be finished soon. Very soon there will be no reason not to open that novel document and begin revising.
Why is that scary? You might ask, isn't that what you do every day, Mary? Write stories?
It’s scary because it matters so much. There in lies the clue to discovering what scares you the most. I guarantee, if you’re honest, it’s those few things that matter most to us that generate our fears.
The scariest things of all are love and creativity. Unconditional love strips us naked. Funny thing, it’s scary whether you’re giving it or receiving it.
Love never stands still. By nature, love grows. Growth is change and love insists we grow along with it. What true thing would you say to your loved one if you weren't afraid of hurt feelings? How would you interact with your children if you had no fear for the future?
Out of love for yourself, what would you stop putting off, if you weren’t afraid?
Like love, creativity urges us to change, to shake up the status quo. If we don’t think about it we realize our natural inclination is to try to keep things as they are, to hold on for fear of losing what we have. This effort toward stagnation strangles love and creativity.
It’s amazing what we will do to stop creativity from blooming, to stop love from flourishing. Sometimes all it takes is turning on the TV or checking Facebook, but sometimes we go to elaborate lengths to thwart intimacy. For creativity is nothing if not intimacy with our very selves. The key to intimacy is vulnerability. Getting back to that being stripped naked—that’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what must happen if I’m to finish my novel.
Is it love or creativity that scares you most? What would you do today, if you weren't afraid? Come on...tell me I'm not alone in this.
December 20, 2013
Going to War on Christmas Eve
Only five more days 'til Christmas! I hope you will be spending it with your loved ones near.
If you still have last minute shopping to do, may I suggest books?
Not fattening.
Don't take up much space. And they can be re-gifted next year.
And now for the main story
Christmas Eve, 1941...
The Japanese Army marched toward Manila, set to conquer the Philippines. American Army Nurse Hattie Brantley and two dozen other military nurses had been ordered to join the army convoy retreating from the city.
"Girls, pack your bags," the medical commander told them. "You're going to Bataan tomorrow."
"Some of us had never heard of Bataan," said Hattie. "On the morning of Christmas Eve, we loaded into buses and open trucks, dressed in our white duty uniforms, a World War I helmet on our heads, and a gas mask ear our sides and headed for the Bataan Peninsula."
Hattie was from Jefferson, Texas, and had only arrived in the Philippines that summer. The group headed for Bataan became the first group of American military women ordered into combat. The army trucks and yellow buses spaced themselves ten minutes apart, but still Japanese planes sighted the convoy. Drivers zig-zagged or lurched off road under the trees to avoid the falling bombs. Nurses jumped out, diving into ditches alongside the road.
Hattie had always craved adventure, saying she didn't want her mother's life as a farm wife with half a dozen kids pulling at her skirt while she washed and cleaned and hoed the garden. She had plenty of adventure now.Eventually, the buses got on their way jolting along the coast road. It was one of the hottest Decembers on record in the history of Bataan. In late afternoon, the convoy pulled into the sleepy fishing village of Limay, a bunch of tiny bamboo shacks set high on stilts. Round-eyed children stared as the line of trucks and buses crawling down the dirt road toward the beach and U.S. Army General Hospital #1. The nurses stared, too, in shock, at the primitive camp with long barracks constructed of bamboo with grass roofs. Windows consisted of flaps that could be lowered when it rained.
“To call it a hospital, is like calling a hut a hotel,” said Historian John Glusman, whose father was a navy doctor on Bataan.
Like Hattie, many of the nurses had grown up on farms. They were used to hard work and doing without. "Set up? Ready to go? In a pig's eye." Hattie told a reporter her memories of that day in 2003. They scrounged up metal cots, bedpans and other provisions that were stored in sheds. These relics of World War I were wrapped in newspapers dated 1918.
Later the nurses ate a quick supper of field pancakes and walked down to relax on the beach. Somebody remembered it was Christmas Eve. Across the bay explosions lit the night sky as the military dynamited ammunition dumps and burned petroleum at Cavite Naval Yard to keep it from the enemy.
“We wondered what was happening to us,” remembered Hattie, but she had faith, hope and trust in God, General MacArthur, F.D.R. and the U.S.A.
The hospital was ready for patients, but with a little luck, it wouldn’t be needed. Surely, help was on its way. “In fact, anytime anyone looked in the direction of the bay and did not see a convoy steaming in, it was with disbelief! Hattie was sure American ships filled with men, weapons and supplies would arrive to rescue them “…at least by tomorrow.”
American troops would not come to the rescue of Hattie and 67 other Army and Navy nurses for more than three years.
If you still have last minute shopping to do, may I suggest books? Not fattening.
Don't take up much space. And they can be re-gifted next year.
And now for the main storyChristmas Eve, 1941...
The Japanese Army marched toward Manila, set to conquer the Philippines. American Army Nurse Hattie Brantley and two dozen other military nurses had been ordered to join the army convoy retreating from the city.
"Girls, pack your bags," the medical commander told them. "You're going to Bataan tomorrow."
"Some of us had never heard of Bataan," said Hattie. "On the morning of Christmas Eve, we loaded into buses and open trucks, dressed in our white duty uniforms, a World War I helmet on our heads, and a gas mask ear our sides and headed for the Bataan Peninsula."
Hattie was from Jefferson, Texas, and had only arrived in the Philippines that summer. The group headed for Bataan became the first group of American military women ordered into combat. The army trucks and yellow buses spaced themselves ten minutes apart, but still Japanese planes sighted the convoy. Drivers zig-zagged or lurched off road under the trees to avoid the falling bombs. Nurses jumped out, diving into ditches alongside the road.
Hattie had always craved adventure, saying she didn't want her mother's life as a farm wife with half a dozen kids pulling at her skirt while she washed and cleaned and hoed the garden. She had plenty of adventure now.Eventually, the buses got on their way jolting along the coast road. It was one of the hottest Decembers on record in the history of Bataan. In late afternoon, the convoy pulled into the sleepy fishing village of Limay, a bunch of tiny bamboo shacks set high on stilts. Round-eyed children stared as the line of trucks and buses crawling down the dirt road toward the beach and U.S. Army General Hospital #1. The nurses stared, too, in shock, at the primitive camp with long barracks constructed of bamboo with grass roofs. Windows consisted of flaps that could be lowered when it rained.
“To call it a hospital, is like calling a hut a hotel,” said Historian John Glusman, whose father was a navy doctor on Bataan.
Like Hattie, many of the nurses had grown up on farms. They were used to hard work and doing without. "Set up? Ready to go? In a pig's eye." Hattie told a reporter her memories of that day in 2003. They scrounged up metal cots, bedpans and other provisions that were stored in sheds. These relics of World War I were wrapped in newspapers dated 1918.
Later the nurses ate a quick supper of field pancakes and walked down to relax on the beach. Somebody remembered it was Christmas Eve. Across the bay explosions lit the night sky as the military dynamited ammunition dumps and burned petroleum at Cavite Naval Yard to keep it from the enemy.“We wondered what was happening to us,” remembered Hattie, but she had faith, hope and trust in God, General MacArthur, F.D.R. and the U.S.A.
The hospital was ready for patients, but with a little luck, it wouldn’t be needed. Surely, help was on its way. “In fact, anytime anyone looked in the direction of the bay and did not see a convoy steaming in, it was with disbelief! Hattie was sure American ships filled with men, weapons and supplies would arrive to rescue them “…at least by tomorrow.”
American troops would not come to the rescue of Hattie and 67 other Army and Navy nurses for more than three years.
December 12, 2013
Dog Makes Climbing Mount Everest Look Easy
Leaving Everest Base Camp, the first stretch toward the peak takes climbers through the Khumbu Ice Fall. In 1.62 miles they gain two-thousand feet in elevation, snaking over deep crevasses and between tall seracs, which are huge columns of ice towering overhead. Climbers (and stray dogs like Lucky Luke) cross the crevasses on aluminum ladders strategically placed early in the season. We don't know how long Lucky had been climbing up and down the ladders en-route to Camp 1. He earned his nickname due to the fact he had not yet fallen.
Near vertical walls fall away to a drop of a hundred feet or more. Some mountaineers refuse to look down into the abyss. Kay LeClaire took a peek between rungs. The ice is a beautiful blue, but one must not gawk for long.
More climbers die in this ice fall than any part of South Col route up Everest. But Kay started preparing for this moment years ago...
Excerpt from JOURNEY TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD:
One cold, gray Saturday, our class meets at a rock-climbing park to practice. My heart sinks when I look at the steep cliffs. At five foot, one inch tall, often I cannot reach the hand and foot holds used by taller climbers. I must grope for my own.
Before long, I’m clinging to the sheer rock, unable to reach any hold. My heart hammers. I’m gasping for breath. Rope anchors me to the rock from above. If I peel off, I won’t fall far. But I freeze.
“What should I do?” I whimper like a toddler.
“Go up,” says the instructor, not a shred of sympathy in his voice.
Get a grip, Kay. I scold myself, then scrabble for a hand hold. Up I go.
I feel great when I reach the top, but that success didn’t dispel my fear forever. The panic can return anytime. Mountain climbing is dangerous, and there have been times I could have died. Sometimes a climber gets hit by a rock fall or avalanche. That’s just it.
When the panic comes, I’ve learned to take a deep breath and focus. Focus on the job at hand. I’ve trained. I have the proper gear and knowledge. I don’t take unnecessary risks. The rest is out of my control.
Thanks, Kay. It sounds like good advice for life as well as mountain climbing! I've felt panic sitting safely in my chair facing a day of writing. My life is not at risk, but something sure is, or it wouldn't feel so scary.
What about you? What makes you quake with fear and need to remind yourself to focus on the job at hand and let go of the rest?
Click here for more about
JOURNEY TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD.
