Sharman Burson Ramsey's Blog, page 27

Clear water of the Wakulla River, yet alligators sun on t...

Clear water of the Wakulla River, yet alligators sun on the shoreThe Age of Greed and Narcissism is bound to be the label future writers lay upon our times. The favored few float easy upon their boon of corporate welfare (NAFTA, GATT, WTO) while the rest of the country continues to dodge the detritus assaulting them (loss of jobs, homes, and health insurance as a consequence of their greed and the politicians who sold out their constituents for a "mess of potage"). Those decisions resulted in the 2008 economic debacle and yet the bail out went to the Wall Street fat cats that caused the problem. Self-absorbed personalities in this group remind me of District 1 of Panem in the Hunger Games, without honor, dignity, any sense of responsibility, yet with a singular claim to -- not personal morality-- but social justice -- a finger in the air to see what is current wisdom -- then hailed as heroes for indulging in another round of public introspection and revelation, always seeking the public adulation of a television audience and social media.

Meanwhile, the average American struggles to find a job that will support a family, to keep their family together with a roof over their heads, to feed their children. Many fight honorably to keep America free.

So today I praise the men and women who honor their vows, who put family first, who honor God without attempting to make Him into their own image. They will probably not be appear on television because their lives are full and focused on what really matters.

Sadly we look more and more like the time written of in the Bible when "All the people did whatever seemed right in their own eyes." Judges 21:25

Jean Hancher's review of Mint Juleps and Murder

Love this review recently posted by Jean Hancher


Mint Juleps and Murder is the second in Sharman Ramsey’s Mint Julep Mysteries Trilogy. When most southern women in their sixties are sipping sweet tea and fanning themselves with their church bulletins, Dabney Rankin and Sophia Ransom, two widowed sisters, find themselves living life in the fast lane sipping mint juleps.  Their TV show, Partying on the Plantation, has succeeding beyond anyone’s imagination.  Since both sisters lacked culinary skills, their initial success was a result of some disastrous missteps in the beginning that sent the show to the top in the ratings chart.  The show was such a hit that they had no difficulty in attracting celebrity guests who really can cook to join their zany cast. Their nonexistent gardens complemented their nonexistent culinary skills, but when news got out that they were going to film a TV series in the Palmer, Alabama, the whole town wanted to get in on the action. Harvey Banks, a retired judge and the head of the Master Gardeners in Cox County was among many who came to the sisters’ rescue.  Betty Lee Simmons, the wife of the local Episcopal priest, was one of the few who came without a hidden agenda. Frederika Amos, the widow of a prominent doctor, seemed to be more interested in Harvey than in gardening.  Her sister was married to Harvey’s twin brother, Senator Hartwell Banks. With the enthusiastic support of the whole town and soaring ratings, what could possibly go wrong? Everything, to put it mildly.

Dabney is not only haunted by dreams, she begins to attract unwanted attention. Dabney learns that Ruby T., a local icon, has managed to get Sadie Summer to agree to come to Palmer to do a charity review. The fact that Dabney is already sufficiently challenged doesn’t keep her from bribing Ruby T. to letting her join the review.  Ruby T. is used to telling it like it is, “You skinny white girls just can’t carry it off.”  Ruby patiently tries to teach Dabney attitude and moves and tells her she has to get in shape. This leads to Dabney’s jogging which leads to Dabney being grabbed from behind, chloroformed, and dumped in a well. She is rescued, only to have another attempt on her life as she is driving Dabnabbit, her turquoise golf cart with pink leather seats, rhinestones around the top, and pink glow bars. Her children thought this was the perfect sixtieth birthday present. The shot missed, but now family and law enforcement combine to protect our heroine.  Drugs, a suicide that may not have been a suicide, and a Pinkerton trunk may be clues, but no one can connect the dots. Why is someone out to kill her?  Another attempt on her life, a surveillance team that spies on a philandering priest, and a successful kidnapping lead to a surprising ending.  Ramsey uses that sleigh of hand that mystery writers use to leave their readers shaking their heads and musing, “I didn’t see that coming.” Amid barbeque, Soul Sisters, and dancing, readers will laugh with Dabney as she cooks and dances her way to the top of the charts and into her readers’ hearts.

Sunday School Lesson "He's Alive"

Just want to share the joy. I have been sitting here preparing to teach the lesson on John 20: 19-23 on Sunday at the Asbury Sunday School Class at the First Methodist Church in Panama City. This is definitely NOT an easy lesson and I have been concerned that I might not understand it well enough to share. Then I woke up Tuesday morning singing "He's Alive." I decided the Lord thought that song ought to open the lesson. I dug through my song tapes and found the tape. This morning I've been singing along to the tape in preparation for one of the hardest lessons I have ever studied to share with others, praising God, and thanking Him for His Holy Word and gift of the risen Savior. We'll be in the Trinity Center, Room 10, if any of you are visiting PC and would like to come and share in the wonder you are welcome. What Jesus did for Peter is available to us all!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyPBVwOCYmM

Library Foundation and Books Alive

I attended my second Board meeting for the Bay County Library Foundation today. Plans for an exciting expanded Books Alive 2016 are under way. I hope my author friends will consider adding Panama City to their book tours. We are so much more than Spring Break!!!!  http://www.booksalive.net and https://www.facebook.com/pages/BooksALIVE/309524262464587 More information about how to become a participating author, editor, agent or blogger will be on our website soon. Contact me at sharmanramsey@gmail.com for more information. Great plans are on the horizon!

Mothers are all slightly insane

My husband's mother, Hilda Ramsey, had been afflicted with Alzheimers for several years when the three of us took a ride, probably down the Azalea Trail, his mother's favorite time of year. I'll never forget being stopped at the intersection of Woodland and Main when Joe commented on a conversation he'd had recently with his Aunt Cassie (Ramsey), then around 80. He said, "Her memory is amazing!" "She never had any children," Mom stated matter-of-factly from the back seat. At that moment her mind was working on all cylinders.

Capstone Educator and Concerns

It looks as if we are now embarking upon a new brand of old education gimmicks. We've been here before with Outcome Based Education, Whole Language, etc. I got my new Capstone Educator, publication of the University of Alabama College of Education, my alma mater. The title Passion Changes Everything: the next generation of faculty, gives kudos to the eduspeak of the apparent new guru of education, Sir Ken Robinson (http://sirkenrobinson.com/read/). A whole new slew of professors will now be training aspiring teachers how NOT to be the "sage on the stage."  "The professor can no longer be the 'sage on the stage," the author writes. Today's teacher must be a "guide on the side" -- with passion!
"Today the classroom is necessarily more dynamic and more conversational than in the past and is inevitably linked to online resources."
Are these fresh faced new professors experienced and successful in the classroom as measured by what parents expect schools and teachers to do -- or have they merely mastered the psychobabble necessary for acquiring a PH.D. in Education. It was sequential learning and direct instruction got us to the moon. Then Ken Goodman published "Reading: a Psycholinguistic Guessing Game," in 1968, revolutionized reading instruction and brought teachers out for professional hootenannies in support of the liberation of the classroom and teachers. Sequential learning and direct instruction has now been pushed further down the trash bin in colleges of education and extremely high illiteracy rates (the basic reason businesses complain that that they cannot find competent employees) continue.
This quotation from the article on the new faculty ought to give you some insight: "... He is interested in developing translational learning and design theories grounded in empirical studies forming computational tools for learning based on these theories and conducting investigations on STEM learning and cognition both through experimental designs and design based research in authentic contexts." (Say what...?)
According to author, historian of education, educational policy analyst, and research professor at New York University's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development, Diane Ravitch, OBE reforms (something I fought in the nineties) usually had other disputed methods, such as constructivist mathematics and whole language, added onto them. So, when I read that the teaching methods for the new professor of Social Science (used to be History) Education "are strongly based on constructivist pedagogy" and the new professor of Elementary Literacy Education wants to examine "culturally relevant literacy instruction in elementary classrooms" my heart starts to pound a warning. With no more community watchdogs who determines cultural relevance?

Once, in my naivety, I thought the education profession to be pure, truly based on replicable research, to prepare children to read, write and compute -- untainted by politics. And then I discovered the huge number of illiterate students in my secondary classroom and set out to find out why. I now believe the source of America's academic decline can traced directly to America's colleges of education.

Retarding America: the Imprisonment of Potential

I am honored to be mentioned by Robert W. Sweet of the National Right to Read Foundation on his Blog. I wrote years ago about the book, Retarding America: The Imprisonment of Potential by Michael Brunner. I did not know that Bob Sweet then worked for the Administration and was the one who hired Michael Brunner to do the study on the root cause of incarceration of our youth. He found that more than single parent home, poverty, or any other element, illiteracy was the most common denominator. AND they found that systematic, direct and early phonics remediation worked best to teach those prisoners to read. Bob found my website recently and read the posts on my opinion page on education. He tells me that there are glimmers of hope in Reading Instruction. Chicago (the home of devastating OBE and Whole Language instruction) will now begin using Sing, Spell, Read and Write, a wonderful SIDE (systematic, intensive, direct and early) phonics program to teach reading. Pearson (the major distributor of instructional programs) is considering adding Sing Spell Read and Write to their curriculum. When I first got involved in trying to find the cause of so many of my students being unable to read Middle School textbooks, I called around the state to the systems with the highest scores in reading. Mountain Brook used Open Court and Vestavia used Sing Spell Read and Write. First Presbyterian uses Sing Spell Read and Write in Dothan (granddaughter Megan goes there). Holy Nativity in Panama City uses Sing Spell Read and Write. (Granddaughter Lily went there.) Grandsons George and Sam attend First Methodist in Panama city that uses ABEKA (a Christian system that all three of our children benefitted from). Another extremely effective phonics program is SPALDING WRITING ROAD TO READING developed by Romalda Spalding who learned under the founder of the dyslexia society Dr. Samuel Orton. Orton noticed how many children were coming to him with dyslexia as the result of the look/say method of reading instruction (later labeled whole word/ whole language). I hope all of you know the reading system your school (or grandchildren's school) uses. If a child cannot read proficiently by the third grade he/she is in for a tough row to hoe the rest of his life. If a teacher tells me they use an eclectic approach geared to the abilities of the individual child, I run, not walk, from that school. That type of educratese is way too sophisticated (and hit and miss) for my simple understanding of the basics my children need to succeed. Parents and citizens pay for the education of our children. They need to demand curriculum that works. Amazingly, schools with the least bells and whistles are most effective in teaching what parents actually expect of schools!
http://www.nrrf.org/education-southern-style/

Mint Julep Mysteries Book Launch December 6, 2014

 Mint Julep Mysteries and Wakefield Plantation: Cookbook and History

The Wakefield Plantation: History and Cookbook of one Southern family and Mint Julep Mysteries book launch took place at Wakefield, the inspiration for the Mint Julep Mysteries series. In spite of the rain and gloom of earlier in the day, the sun broke out at the start of the event. Martha Nix was my traveling buddy as my husband was glued to the TV and football games. Sylvia and Thomas Rushing were great hosts. Taylor Johnson helped us with the hosting duties guiding folks back and forth from the Big House (Wakefield) to the Little House (where our father actually grew up across the street).

Gene Stabler and Donald StoneDonald Stone, the son of one of my heroes in history, the founder of Snow Hill Institute,  W. J. Edwards, wrote The Black Prince and had his grandfather's own autobiography, Twenty-five Years in the Black Belt) republished. These are must reads for inspiration as well as history. My cousin, Gene Stabler, had been trying to contact Dr. Stone for years. Gene's father was a mail carrier and a good friend of W. J. Edwards. It was such a pleasure seeing these two sons find so much in common and strike up a friendship there at the meeting. Spike Lee is the great grandson of W. J. Edwards. According to Don, Lee and Brandon Tartikoff had spoken of a movie based on the great man before Tartikoff passed away. I truly wish Lee would produce a movie based on his great grandfather's life!

William James Edwards arrived early and we traded books.



Mary Lois Woodson, manager of Black Belt Treasures handled the sales of the books. Ernie and Dianne Thomas Marshburn got a bit lost on the way up, but called my husband in Dothan and got straightened out. Paula Bostic and her husband Mike brought their granddaughter, McKenna. I had looked forward to seeing his new Corvette, but it only seats 2 plus it was raining. Can't take a chance on getting clay on a new corvette!


Paula Bostic and Sharman Ramsey Jean Hancher and Sharman Ramsey

Lots of folks came and we had a great time talking history! I look forward to meeting Mary Lois's mother and reading the books she has written on the history of the area inspired as she was as the editor of the local paper. The weather started out dismal and rainy, but the sun broke out. My dear friend, Jean W. Hancher and her husband Tom, braved the weather and the distance from Atlanta. It was GREAT getting together once more after 30 years!


Thanks to all who attended. The day was perfect and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Especially when Mary Lois waxed eloquent telling me how much she enjoyed the Mint Julep Mysteries! Music to an author's ears!

I just wish I'd had time to take more pictures!

Alliwishus 2014

I want to share with you all this Christmas story told to me by my mother. I pray for each and every one of you a blessed Christmas and a New Year filled with love, joy and peace. Sharman Ramsey
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Sharman and JeanIt was nap time. I remember lying reluctantly in my parent's king sized bed wrapped in my very tired mother's arms as she tried to keep me still enough to go to sleep.
"Listen!" she whispered. "Is that Alliwishus I hear outside that window?
" I wriggled and said, "I'll go see!"
"No," she said. "He's too fast for you to see him. He's listening to see if you're a good little girl. He reports back to Santa, you know. And you do want Santa to come and see you at Christmas, don't you?"
"I nodded as hard as my little head could nod tucked as it was beneath my mother's chin. I cuddled closer to my mother with my eyes on the wall of windows opposite the huge bed.
"Tell me about Alliwishus, Mama."
And then I listened to her soft whispered story of the elf she met in the midst of a foreign land during an adventure that seemed incredible and far away. Lulled by her comforting voice and familiar scent I drifted away to a world of dreams.

Alliwishus visited me in one of those dreams,  Alliwishus told me his version of that story. In his magical way, he allowed me to see it as if on a screen! Years later, knowing I had become a writer, he promised to tell me more.

Alliwishusby Sharman Jean Burson Ramsey


The story you are about to hear is true. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

My name is Aloysius I. Wishus. Friends call me Alliwishus.

I work in the city. Santaland. The North Pole. I am an elf. I wear a green tassled hat.

There are many stories in the city. This is mine.

I served hundreds of years as a Messenger in the Warrior Branch of the Guardian Angels dreaming of the day I would advance to being a Warrior Angel.  But, no matter how many buckets of rain I lifted, I could not get strong enough to throw a lightning bolt.  I was way too little to be a Warrior Angel like I really wanted to be.  I only got laughed at when I showed up for the tryouts.  They were very loving laughs, to be sure.  Fond chuckles, perhaps.   After all, these were heavenly beings.  It was embarrassing all the same.

So when The Master approved the idea of everyone giving to others on His birthday and set up Santa Service to help carry this out, I saw this as my opportunity. It was the job of all the elves in this branch of Santa Service to plant in the hearts of parents and fellow men the desire to fulfill the wishes and prayers of little children, the most vulnerable of all human beings.  I am now a member of  the Wishus clan and proudly wear the coveted green cap.  Our badge of service.

I work out of the Reading Room at Santa's Workshop in the uncharted regions of the North Pole.  Usually the frigid air didn't faze me where I sit there on my stool. But that day I felt cold right down to my very bones.  The chubby cheeks and the tip of the cute, long, turned up nose belonging to my friend Alisha Wishus, whose stool was directly opposite mine at the table, were reddened with the bite of the frost.  I knew mine probably were too. Alisha never looked up. Alexander did. And scowled ferociously at me.

But, it wasn't Alisha not even knowing my name, or Alexander’s attitude, or even the weather that chilled me most; it was the despair in the letters I read and the prayers of my charges that I passed on to The Master.

December 20, 1944
Dear Santa,
All I want is my daddy home for Christmas.
Sincerely,
Randolph

The letters came in English, French, German, Russian, Italian . . . nearly every language spoken on the face of the earth.  Yet the message was the same.  Daddies and brothers were on the killing fields. Those who loved them wanted a miracle.

At the same time it seemed the prayers of all in my charge reached me with such a force it reminded me of the last time Halley's Comet passed the earth.  They struck me like a typhoon with a vortex so empty it threatened to suck all the hope from the world.  Reluctantly, I passed the prayers on to the Master.  I knew the pain He felt at the evil in the hearts of men that brought the children such suffering.

Finally, I decided enough was enough.  I had sat there on the stool long enough.  So I slid down the leg of my stool clutching a sheaf of letters tightly in my fist. I flipped the white tassel on the end of my emerald cap out of my eyes. I marched determinedly to the Main Office. The bells on the end of my turned up shoes jingled with false cheer.

Once again I wished I were bigger, more imposing.  Who would believe a tiny little thing like me could really make a difference?  I only knew I had to try!

At my timid knock, a muffled voice called out, “Enter.”

Santa, wearing work jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his dress velvet and fur, sat upon a worn overstuffed wing chair on a dais in the center of the control room.  Around him were hundreds of  monitors scanning the earth.  Santa's usually cheery countenance today matched my own mournful look.  The kindness and compassion that gleamed from Santa's warm brown eyes under his shaggy white brows encouraged me so I straightened myself to my full six inch height and cleared my throat.

"Sir, I know the Warrior Angels told us to stay out of the War Zone.  But my charges need me.  I know their voices like no other.  Doing something . . . anything . . . is better than sitting around doing nothing!"

"AlliWishus, surely you realize how important your work is right here.  The Master needs you to quicken within humans the desire to love their fellow man.  It is the most important work that can possibly be done."

"Yes, sir, I realize that, but long distance is not my style," I said, puffing out my chest, hoping Santa would notice how much stronger I had become lifting al those buckets of rain drops.  "It's been a long time since I made my rounds in that part of the world, sir."

Santa stared at the monitor focused on the Ardennes Forest of Belgium near Luxembourg.  Before him played out one of the most devastating battles of the war, the Battle of the Bulge. "War is the great cancer of the world.  So much suffering . . . and yet they waste their talents and their resources inventing even more horrible weapons."

As Santa indicated the monitor he had been watching, I saw many of my charges of every nation fighting one another.   Above them, unseen by the earthly combatants, I watched ferocious spiritual warriors, the forces of Good and Evil.  I knew only the prayers of the godly would shift the direction of the battle.

Something compelled me toward that war zone.  I would not, could not, back down. I took a deep breath and clenched my fist.  "I simply must go, sir."

I could see that Santa was about to say "no" when a light started flashing on the headpiece Santa wore.  Santa put his finger to his earpiece and nodded.  With a look of surprise, he turned to me and said, "Permission is granted. The Master has called you to special duty."  Then with a nod of his head and with a twinkle of affection in his eye, Santa dismissed me.

As the door closed behind me, I heard Santa mumble to himself, "Such a great spirit for such a little being."

I sighed in relief and then hurried back to the Reading Room where I grabbed my green quilted cape and carefully pulled my wings through the slits.  Then I rode the escalator up to the Telekinetic Teleport on the roof of the remodeled Workshop.  Before you could say "Rudolph" I was transported to the site of the German counterattack against the American troops.

The sight was so distressing that I did not notice the thunderbolt thrown by an Angel of Darkness that caught me in the left wing hurling me through the air.  I tumbled down into the snow, my wing hanging uselessly behind me.

So this is pain, I thought.  This is what human beings fear so.

I winced.  In spite of the pain I felt closer than ever to those I'd come to serve. I now realized why The Master felt He had to come to Earth as a man.

Lying there in the snow with a broken wing, in the middle of a bomb gutted village in France was not exactly the time to be philosophical, I thought to myself.  I had things to do. But there was nothing to do except lie there until the monitors scanned me and help was sent.
Jean Gillis with her Commanding Officer in the 165th
  
Meanwhile, one of the American nurses who had landed at Cherbourg after the D-Day invasion the previous January was having a bad day as well.  Jean Gillis had been assigned to a hospital train that traveled from the front lines back to Paris and then to Cherbourg to deliver injured soldiers to transport ships bound for England or America for more intensive care.  Not the romantic France of her teenage day dreams, she thought as she trudged through the snow back to her quarters.





She had a few hours off so when King Kallen invited her to go for a ride, she accepted.  A motor cycle!  Being on a battlefield halfway around the world can make a South Alabama girl do things she would have had sense enough not to do at home.  Even though she was wearing just about every piece of clothing the Army issued its nurses, she was still shivering. Yet while speeding through the snow covered town, for a few minutes there was a  peace in her soul ... a while to forget the war, the misery, the mangled men too young to die, and the unnamed heaviness.
They rode through the streets of the battle scarred village with the icy wind whipping their faces turning their eyelashes turn into icicles.  She smiled recklessly when King laughed as he booted the speed making her squeal.  "Just hang on tight," he teased.
Cherbourg, France


"Stop this thing!  I want to get off!" she hollered, embarrassing herself with the high pitched squeal that followed.

 King just gave a deep macho laugh and went faster.  "Hold on!" he yelled.

When he turned his attention back to the road, he saw they were right on a puddle
"Hang on!" he'd yelled as they hit the slush.  The motorcycle went out of control, immediately sending them into a slide.  Jean went flying off the motorcycle.  She tumbled over and over and landed right at the feet of Captain Chadwick, the head of nursing.

Humiliated, she looked up at her commanding officer, totally unable to get up.  Bound as she was by layers of clothing all she could do was flutter like a turtle flipped on its back.  Captain Chadwick looked down her long patrician nose at her, that country bumpkin nurse under her command.  King rushed over to help while she fluttered helplessly and spun occasionally on the ice at Chadwick's feet.
"Don't touch me!" she'd told King Kallen as he tried to get a grip around her padded body and pull her to her feet.  How dare he get her in that situation
"Back to quarters, Lieutenant Gillis," the Captain ordered.  "On foot!"

Bruised and embarrassed she waddled...waddled!!!...back toward the hotel in which she was quartered with as much dignity as her bruised and extremely well-padded body could muster.  It was because of the bruises and the care she took with her steps that she saw me.

"Help!" I called.

She stopped and looked around, but saw nothing.

"Down here," I said.

There, only inches from her army issue boots, I lay. To her eyes I appeared as tiny creature with gossamer wings that shone brightly and then began to flicker.  I laughed as Jean wiped her eyes, thinking snowflakes and her bumped head were causing her eyes to play tricks on her.  She blinked hard and when she looked back, I was still there. Even my eyes ached with the pain.  Curious, she lifted me gently from the snow and brought me close to her face.  I knew her well, though she had never seen me before. I smiled and nestled even more trustingly in the palm of her hand.  I had the advantage. I could read her thoughts.

“What am I doing,” she muttered to herself.  “Nursing manuals don’t cover elves.  This is crazy.  They don’t cover them because they don’t exist!” she reminded herself.  “Then what is this warm light in my hand?”


She looked around wondering if she looked as foolish as she felt.  Who would believe her if she were to ask for help from someone else?  Captain Callahan would have her committed to the mental ward.  She scurried through the darkness back to the nurses' quarters in the quaint hotel.  There she laid me on the examining table in the dispensary they had set up in one of the conference rooms.  All she could find was a tongue depressor to set my fragile wing.

I might not be real, she thought, but I certainly felt real in her hands and the pain on my face was real enough to pull at her heart.

"So, where do you come from, little one?"  she asked, as I grimaced.  "And how does one tend to a fiction of one's imagination?"  Being in France in the middle of a war zone wasn't exactly the sanest thing she'd ever done any way you looked at it.  Besides, somehow, strange as it was, the tiny creature seemed almost familiar.

I didn’t get my feelings hurt. I’d made great effort not to be discovered when I was about my task.

"Well, I’ll just have to improvise," she said to herself.

"The nuns, my teachers back at Saint Margaret's Hospital in Montgomery where I trained in Nursing, always thought I was crazy. But even they had never dreamed I would presume to nurse an elf back to health!"

I groaned so Jean crushed a granule of aspirin in a spoon and added a dash of Coke.  I sipped the nectar and licked my lips.

"What now?" she whispered to me. "If I leave you and you roll off the table someone might step on you!"  There was nothing to do but carry me to her room she finally decided.

There she placed me on a pile of gauze in her duffel bag.

She slept little that night worried about me, her vulnerable, very tiny, new friend. Her heart was big. And because of her loving care, even I could tell that the dull light around me grew brighter as the night wore on.

The next morning she was supposed to set out for another tour on the hospital train.  She lifted the duffel in which I lay as carefully as she could. I could tell the knot on her head from the motor cycle accident the day before throbbed and gave her pain. I could tell she wondered…was she imagining . . . But, there I sat … on top of the sheets and towels in the duffel bag, glimmering away on a pile of gauze. Her strange encounter of the night before.  I grinned at her.

Might as well enjoy the experience, I figured.

She shook her head and secured the duffel in the corner of her assigned compartment on the train, which, luckily, she was to occupy alone.

She did for me what she did for other patients, force fluids and make me as comfortable as possible.

She shared an aspirin with me.  With an eye dropper she gave me drops of something she called Coca Cola.  I wrinkled my face at the unfamiliar taste, burped and then licked my lips.

“More, please,” I said, smacking my lips as we did in the North Pole to indicate my desire for more.
I asked, "What nectar is this?  Is it from some flower I do not know?"

Jean giggled. At least her imaginary friend was amusing.

"No," she answered.  "A druggist invented this in Columbus, Georgia, and served it at his soda fountain.  Folks from all over liked it so much somebody got the idea of bottling it." She caught herself talking to me. "Sure and begorra,' she said, "My Scots-Irish heritage is coming out!  Talking to the wee ones, I am.  No doubt if anyone walked past it would look as if I were talking to myself!"

"We've never had it in the North Pole," I said.  A sudden pain caught me and she saw me wince. She gave me another granule of aspirin.  The strange light that surrounded me grew steadier as I, the odd little creature she thought of me as, gained strength.

Jean closed the door to the compartment and using only the light of a torch she called a flashlight hurried to join the nurses in checking the supplies for their run to the front lines.

The horrible sounds of war exploded around us. Planes issued a stacatto of bullets and the ground shook with explosions. I don't know if I really heard the agonizing screams of injured men and women or just knew it in my soul but the pain of their pain was nearly unbearable. I grew more and more impatient to get to my work.

Our train was shrouded with darkness. Not a shred of light could escape to reveal their position. The train puffed bravely on to tend those brave men who fought the evil that threatened to extinguish those human beings they thought inferior. As if the Master ever wasted His time creating anyone or thing inferior!

Jean rubbed the knot on the back of her head.  I read her thoughts.
Did he say North Pole?  She dared say nothing to the other nurses; they would think she had come down with battle fatigue and would put her in one of the beds their injured soldiers needed so badly.

A sharp pain shot through her head and she considered consulting a doctor herself.  A tiny elf from the North Pole sipping Coca Cola with aspirin and glowing stronger by the minute sounded like a hallucination.  There wasn't time, even if she was so inclined.  She had to make sure all the windows were covered and not a sliver of light showed.  All windows on the train had to be completely covered so that it would not be spotted from above and bombed.

Back in the compartment, I grew more and more anxious. I had felt drawn to this area for some reason and now when I needed my strength I was wounded and out of action, something that had never before happened to me!

It took six hours for us to get to the front.  Then, with bombs exploding around us, Jean got busy loading patients, stacking stretchers in racks three patients high.  Those able to walk occupied compartments with seven other patients.  From the moment they loaded, she was busy administering what pain medicine they had, answering their cries for water, changing dressings . . . just trying to make them as comfortable as possible in the dark jolting train.

Yet, busy as she was, several times she ran back to the compartment to give me a dropper of the precious Coca Cola with a granule of aspirin.                                 

I caught the thoughts of many of my charges as I lay there. Something was about to happen. I tested my wing. Though still weak and unsteady I managed to lift myself from the duffel. I followed Jean into the darkened corridor.

I lifted each man and woman there up to the Master in prayer. My heart ached for them. But there was a special reason for my being there.

The worst cases were burns.  The Infantry had come to fear the flame throwers so much that they had trained Point Men who specialized in sneaking up behind the enemy flame throwers to choke them with a jerk of a neck.  Their fellow soldiers relied upon the instinct and quickness of the Point Men to protect them from the agonizing effects of the sudden burst of flames that could envelope an entire squadron.

I was weak but my heart pounded with the same sense of urgency that had drawn me to this place. I struggled to lift myself and find Jean.

The only light on the rocking train was in the beam of light from the torches carried by the nurses.  It was such a "torch" that Jean carried.  She did not realize it looked like a flame that Point Men were trained to zero in on.

A Point Man's failure could mean death to his company. I almost didn’t recognize him. He was a gentle, lonely boy, an only child who lived with his parents on a farm. He'd prayed for friends. He found them when he joined the Army. But Joey had seen his entire platoon destroyed just hours before.  He had jumped frantically into the midst of his burning friends to try and save them.  But it was impossible.  He only knew he lived ... and they were dead.  The fact that he could have done nothing that would have saved them mattered.  He'd failed his friends and in his mind the shock of seeing his friends killed obliterated everything else.

Jean struggled down the corridor carrying medications to the men stacked in cots in the compartments.  The light pierced the Point Man's consciousness and all of his training focused itself on the source of the potential danger.  With each step danger came closer and closer in the disturbed mind of the soldier.
   
Joey squatted in the corridor directly in front of the advancing torch.  He waited patiently. His target had surprised him and his friends once.  He would not fail them again.

Stealthily, in spite of his own grave burns and injuries, acquired when he'd tried to smother the flames on his friends, he rose to fulfill his mission. I was barely a flicker. Tiny and weak. Yet I knew that it was for this moment I had come. I had to do something!

Exhausted, Jean reached out to steady herself with the hand holding the flashlight as she swayed with the train while still balancing the tray in one hand.  Suddenly, from the darkness, appeared a grotesque face with clawlike hands reaching toward her, only inches from her neck.  She was frozen with fear and could not make a sound.

In her terror she saw a tiny glimmer of light beside the man's face.  Amazingly she heard a soft voice whisper, "Joey, Joey.  Time for bed, now.  Santa's on his way.  Joey's been a good boy and Santa knows about the train he wants for Christmas.  Sit and sleep."

Miraculously, the anger and fear that had contorted the man's face now relaxed into its natural boyish contours.  He couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen.  Yet only moments before the hate and rage of war had given him the look of the gargoyles carved into the Gothic cathedrals that dotted the country.
    
Jean leaned against the wall suddenly breathless.  The light came and rested upon her shoulder.
I sighed deeply and whispered to her, "He also is one of my charges.  It is only recently that he quit writing me his letters."

"His is one of the many voices that called me into this darkness," I told her sadly.

I had much to do. I had succeeded here. But my task was immense.

My light flickered and Jean knew my strength was waning.  "Thank you for coming when you did.  But, you're too weak to be up. Let me take you back." Imaginary or not, her danger had been real, and this figment of her imagination, or Santa's elf, had saved her.

"Another drop of that strange nectar?" I whispered.

In spite of her fear she smiled.  I knew strange thoughts whirled through her head.  But she was too busy to ask questions then and I was too weak to talk.

Later when all the injured were settled on the transport ships headed for hospitals in England, we settled again in the hotel in Cherbourg where the nurses were quartered. We both slept soundly for hours. When she awoke she found me sitting in the duffel flexing his uninjured wing.

"I can fly with only one wing as you saw last night.  It is terribly awkward and so I must exercise to build strength.  I am needed," I tried to  explain.

At last she understood.  She would only have a short time to ask the many questions that seemed so important.  "Can you tell me about yourself?"

He continued his flexes as he answered, "My name is Alli Wishus and I am in Santa Service."
"Santa Service?  Why . . . that's only make-believe."
     
"Now, Jean," he said to her amazement, "I have heard all your hopes and dreams sitting in the limbs of the Mimosa tree right outside your window. I comforted you as best I could when your father died when you were thirteen. When you took the baby from your mother's arms as she lay in shock and pain upon her bed, I heard you whisper the promise to your little sister that you would take care of her even as tears streamed from your own eyes.  I listened to your prayers for your family and passed on how hard you worked in the dime store to help your mother care for your sisters and brother."
Jean, Jim, Eunice and Patricia, Virginia and Sylvia Gillis
"I know you signed up to be an Army nurse because your brother was called to duty and you wanted to do for some other soldier what you hoped someone would do for him should he need them."


"I listen to prayers as well as read letters."

Jean's emerald green eyes grew wide with amazement.  How could he know so much about her?

"But, what are you doing here?"  she asked when she finally could speak.

“I was watching my charges around the world and sensed the dangers around you. I was not paying attention to the dangers around me.”

“I thought I had accidentally caught that lightning bolt hurled by the Angel of Darkness. But, I guess I was exactly where The Master wanted me because I found you and Joey.”

Sadness clouded his face.  "It seems there is so little I can do.  Yet, as I did for Joey tonight, I can remind them of a Love that brings Peace.  Wars are won, not on the battlefields, but in the hearts of men.  If men can conquer the evil within themselves, then the collective evil of War need never be fought. Only Love can conquer the Darkness that would destroy the Master's own."

"You, your children, and your children's children are on my list.  Remind them to be very good.  They will never know when I'll be sitting outside their window," he told her.  "And please, leave some of that bottled nectar out for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve!"

    


I visited frequently," Alliwishus said. And heard her tell my story to your children, her grandchildren."

"Is Alliwishus watching us now, Grandmother?" asked Brooke as she pulled her thumb from her mouth and wriggled to get more comfortable on her grandmother’s lap.

"I see him!  I see him!" her five year old brother, Drew, yelled jumping up and down in front of the picture window.

"That was the Hannahan's car lights.  Wasn't it, Grandmother?" said Cecily, her mature seven year old granddaughter sitting on the stool at her feet.

"Maybe, maybe not," she answered.  They all sat still and watched the lights from the fire in the fireplace and the cars on the street flicker on the stacked stone wall of the fireplace.

"I'll get the Coke and put it with some cookies, Grandmother," Cecily finally said, giving in to her doubts.        

From watching the nightly news your mother knew my letters would now come from Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Bosnia, Somalia, Korea, Los Angeles . . . strange exotic sounding places, and some too close to home.  Hatred, fear and terror still trampled the earth.



Years later, Alisha and Alex, by then trainees of mine in Santa Service, accompanied me to visit the object of my very first mission.

It was Christmas again, more than fifteen years later, and then the grandson she’d told of Alliwishus wore the same uniform she had worn when she’d discovered the tiny elf in the snow in the far-off land.  Saber rattling in the Middle East threatened to take that young man to more battlefields far away.










She leaned back in her chair and we knew she thought of the fears she had for his safety.
Then, I think, she sensed my presence outside that window.

She remembered the Darkness of that fearful train and the Light of God’s Love that had pierced the darkness. She smiled at a light that flickered from the magnolia outside her window. Coca Cola and cookies lay on the table before her.

"Yet," I heard her say speaking as if directly to me, "His still small voice and the tiny glimmer of light will never cease bringing hope unto a hopeless world."

Alex, Alisha and I had miles to go. New lands to visit. But I lingered a moment knowing I would not see her again. I would not fail in my promise to keep her children and children's children as my own forever.

 (More tales of Alliwishus and his friends to come.)

University of Alabama Delta Delta Delta dedicates a new home

Delta Delta Delta University of Alabama
November 16th, 2014, brought a large group of University of Alabama Delta Delta Delta alumnae back to the campus to celebrate a brand new house. (I shared memories of the former Round House in another post, Delta Delta Delta Memories 1968.)









The amazing house has a dining room large enough for the over 300 members to actually eat at the same time. The actives welcomed the alumnae who donated to toward the construction of the lovely new home. It was such a delight getting to visit with my dear old friend and pledge sister, Yancey Nowlin Trucks, who left college and became the highest ranking woman in Alabama Power.

Donna Dearman Smith was our pledge class president and later also worked with Alabama Power. Jennie Kimborough King was one of the pledges our class was so proud to bring into the Chapter. She now works as a Career Consultant at the University of Alabama. She and the Tuscaloosa alumnae worked hard on planning, financing and bringing the new Tri Delt house into reality. She will replace Amanda Humber as House Corporation president


Dothan alumnae, Beth Shealy and Sue Marie Shealy Coe

Dothan Tri Delts, Beth Shealy and Sue Marie Coe Shealy, attended the event as well. Beth Shealy has served the chapter well, writing recs over the years to help Dothan girls along in the process.

The design of the dining room includes a celestory in the center of the ceiling. The round shape is an homage to the original 21,000 square foot round Tri Delt House. The new house is over 40,000 square feet. 
House Corporation President, Amanda Humber addresses the group. 




I was particularly delighted to reconnect with Beth Finch Curtis known affectionately to all during that time as Pieface. I heard her wonder to herself if any of those girls lining the walls (our pledges and actives) would allow anyone to call THEM Pieface ! I remember always being impressed with her calm, cool leadership. Years may pass but you never stop loving those who shared those wonderful years and happy times with you. Beth married the twin brother of one of Delta Mu's most beautiful members, Julie Curtis. 
Beth Finch Curtis, Yancey Nowlin Trucks, Sharman Burson Ramsey, Patty Wilson Baker, Betty Bates , Peggy Wilson Pate
The weather forecast was for freezing weather. I wore the big coat that South Alabama ladies only get to wear on special occasions. 
We could not help but reminisce about the difference in sleeping arrangements. The new bedrooms at the Tri Delt house are absolutely gorgeous! These two are just examples. 



I truly enjoyed visiting with these dear old friends and making new ones in other classes. Each of us has our own story of our college life. Delta Delta Delta was a meaningful part of mine.

Alabama beat Mississippi State the day before. It was a very good weekend.