We stood at silent attention to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the
11 a.m. November 11, 1918 end of what has become known as World War I, “a
war to end all wars.” We also stood to honor the more than 50,000 young
American soldiers who died fighting in France.

On arriving home that afternoon I noticed what appeared to be a
telegram addressed to our father. When Dad came home from work, he moved
to his favorite living room chair and started opening the mail. Suddenly he cried
out: “It’s Jim!”

We saw him clutching a War Department telegram that began with the by
now familiar words: “We regret to inform you . . . .” It went on to say that our
older brother Jim had been killed in combat in Italy on October 27, 1943.

How heart-breaking for all of us, trying to take in this devastating news. In
the days that followed, Jim’s death was not something we could easily talk
about with each other, with schoolmates, or with neighborhood friends. We
simply had to live with it and continue with our lives. But the pain never goes
away.

We soon received from the local American Legion Post a new service flag
with its gold star to replace our blue star flag. Letters arrived from several of
Jim’s buddies offering their sympathy. Several months later news came that Jim
had been awarded posthumously a Silver Star for battlefield valor. He served as
a forward observer whose dangerous assignment was to move beyond the front
lines and direct artillery fire on enemy targets.

After the war ended, another letter arrived asking whether my folks
wanted Jim’s remains sent back to the U.S. or buried in the newly constructed
American military cemetery in Nettuno, Italy. My parents wisely opted for his
burial there with his fellow soldiers.
​
My several visits over the years to Jim’s grave are always a mix of sadness
offset by respect for the 7,860 soldiers killed in Sicily and southern Italy who lie
buried there. They rest in the silent beauty of the well-cared-for cemetery. Each
of its white marble grave markers stands in a sea of perfectly spaced and
aligned rows of crosses and occasional stars of David. Each lists the soldier’s
name and rank, military unit, home state, and date of death.

JAMES W. HANSEN
SGT 125 FA BN 34 DIV
MINNESOTA OCT 27 1943

On each visit to Jim’s grave I see fewer American visitors. My two
brothers and I, Korean War veterans now in our nineties, are doubtless the only
living persons who knew our brother Jim. And soon we too will be gone.
We hope on this Veterans Day that younger generations of Americans will
pause to remember and honor the thousands of young Americans who died
serving their country, young men they never knew but who sacrificed so much
for all of us.

This left us facing an agonizing irony: If Mom had been able to exercise a choice in the matter, we have no doubt that she would have chosen to end her life. Indeed, so strongly had she expressed this feeling over the years that we would not have hesitated to assist her in this had she asked. Alas, given that she was no longer legally competent to make this decision, we could do nothing to honor that long-held wish. Thus, she was forced to continue to suffer until she finally, mercifully, slipped away. And so ends the story of “The Remarkable Sally Hansen.”

At the same time, another story continues, one that we feel deserves equal attention: that of The Remarkable W. Lee Hansen. During the period of time these events took place, we, Lee and Sally’s daughters, were both living elsewhere, one across the country and one abroad. Our father frequently sought our advice and kept us well informed of all the twists and turns and ups and downs of our mother’s health situation; however, because he did so in such a calm, rational – even stoic – manner, we remained to a large degree unaware of the depth and complexity of the struggle he was engaged in.

Being the competent, highly intellectual, and even-tempered individual that he is, Dad never made things sound terribly alarming or upsetting; indeed, he seemed to take everything in stride and never demonstrated signs of fear or distress, much less hopelessness or despair, always simply focusing on the next problem to be solved. In an extension of the academic approach he had honed over the course of his career, he doggedly gathered data and assiduously recorded it in an attempt to take what control he could over the unpredictable events that were unfolding.

Dad handled our mother’s hospital admissions, endured her volatile moods,
vetted the care options available to her, and supervised her caretaking in several different facilities to make sure that she received the best care possible. He was indefatigable in his unending efforts to brighten what was left of Mom’s life, visiting her almost daily, bringing her treats, and decorating her room with pictures and familiar keepsakes aimed at making each new environment as comforting and nonthreatening as possible. In demonstrating his love and concern by so closely attending to her needs, Dad inspired the affection, admiration, and allyship of the caregivers tasked with the difficult job of caring for her, thus ensuring that she always remained in loving hands.

Over the course of the years, all of this added up to a formidable task that for many people would have been a crushing burden, but for our father was a load he carried with uncommon grace, almost single-handedly and without complaint.

​Although we dearly miss our mother’s wit and wisdom and grieve with our father for the loss of the deep and lasting bond they shared, we feel so very blessed that our amazing dad is still with us. He has persevered through so much to honor Mom’s memory and pass along the fruits of his hard-won experience in an attempt to help others, hopefully including the readers of his book. We salute you, Dad, and offer you our heartfelt thanks.

***

Several years ago, I decided to do something different. I drove 80 miles to the North Cape, cemetery located a mile north of North Cape for a 7:45 a.m. Memorial Day Service. Arriving early, I took time to visit the graves of our ancestors. The worn gravestones of our great grandparents, the last of whom died a century ago, had been replaced a few years ago. The gravestones of our grandparents are so weathered the inscriptions are difficult to make out; soon those gravestones will also have to be replaced. Then I wandered about the cemetery, noting the names of families my mother and grandmother frequently mentioned when they talked about the “old days” in North Cape.

The Memorial Day ceremony was not an elaborate one. The American Legion Honor Guard from nearby Waterford assembled along the front edge of the cemetery. They faced the assembled crowd of about 35 local people, ranging from small children to one ancient man who must surely have been a WWII veteran.

The ceremony began with the calling of the roll, the names of the probably 15 local veterans who died in the past year. As each name was called out, the response was “Not Present.” The leader of the group then read from General John Logan’s 1868 Proclamation establishing Decoration Day to honor the Civil War dead. The Lutheran minister, from the Norwegian Lutheran Church (established in 1850) across the road, quoted from Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, and followed with a reading from the Bible. The color guard presented arms and fired the customary salute. This was followed by the sound of “Taps” coming from two buglers, one with the honor guard and the other echoing the sound from a distant corner of the cemetery.  The ceremony  was a moving one that always leaves me  misty-eyed for the many who died  much too soon.

What happened in southern Turkey has particular meaning for me because I spent a good part of 1952 stationed in Iskenderun where I served with an eight-man U.S. Army team advising the Turkish 39th Infantry Division on how to make effective use of the vast amounts of military equipment the U.S. was supplying to Turkey as part of our “containment” policy against the expansionist demands of the Stalin and the Soviet Union.

Living in the quiet, sleepy town of Iskenderun was most pleasant, with its beautiful beach stretching to the south and its still undeveloped harbor stretching to the north. Iskenderun retained some of its French character having been transferred to Turkey toward the end of World War II. The taxies were still horse-drawn carriages and hovered around the town square. At  the time of my arrival the US Navy was building a Turkish naval base there to facilitate the transport of military equipment to the country’s eastern regions.

For readers not familiar with the area, Iskenderun is located in Hatay province, a narrow strip of land extending south along the eastern Mediterranean coast and lying to the west of northern Syria.

The earthquake’s destruction has been centered, and often videotaped, in most of southern Turkey’s major cities, among them Iskenderun, ancient
Antakya, historic Marsh and Gaziantep, Adana, and Osmaniye. The destruction in many small towns and villages, often nestled in the nearby mountains, has gone largely unmentioned in the news accounts coming out of Turkey.

On arriving in Turkey back in 1952 we were told that Turkey was prone to earthquakes. We were not overly concerned because the one earthquake we did experience was rather mild, centered about 50 miles north of Iskenderun. When  I drove through that area several days later, the only evidence I could  see was several toppled minarets and a few buildings with large cracks in their side walls.

Had an earthquake occurred in Iskenderun the damage would have been slight. Most of the buildings in Iskenderun, then a town of about 18,000, were one story in height, made of poured concrete, and quite sturdy.  (A satellite photo of Iskenderun shows that the house where I lived apparently escaped destruction).

But with the region’s growth spurt over the past 40  years, the demand for housing increased rapidly as rural people migrated into the city, their birth rates continued to be high, and they desperately needed housing. By 2022, Iskenderun’s population had grown to  more than 220,000, an astounding twelve-fold increase since I lived there back in 1952.

Given the limited flat land in and around Iskenderun and hemmed in by the surrounding mountain range, the only option was to construct high rise apartment buildings. But, trouble was brewing because too many of the newly constructed buildings were not built according to a code designed to prevent buildings from toppling over in the event of earthquakes. Not only were the building codes not enforced but contractors often cut corners in erecting many of these high rise apartment buildings, with obvious consequences.

The unfortunate result of this convergence of forces lead to Turkey’s current predicament---coping with the mass destruction, the thousands of dead and injured, and the even greater numbers of the homeless.  How to reconstitute these communities is a challenge, something President Erodgan has promised to do and quickly.

Most of the few people I once knew in Iskenderun passed away long before these latest earthquakes.  Yet, I still retain fond memories of living in Iskenderun more than 70 years ago, my first experience living abroad, in  this lovely Turkish town.  At that time the Turks were enthusiastic supporters of the U.S., and they were doing their best to become a much-improved military power, one ready to take on the Russians if they tried to invade Turkey.  

Before World War II ended the Soviet Union was demanding that Turkey cede to Russia its two eastern-most provinces and allow Russia to share control of the Dardanelles Straits, which would give it  access to the Mediterranean Sea. Turkey refused the Soviet demands. After Britain in early 1947 said it could no longer provide military and economic aid to Turkey and  Greece, President Truman realized the threat Russia posed. He immediately asked congress to implement a policy of containment and begin efforts to modernize the Turkish army and strengthen its economy. Doing the former brought in U.S. Army Training teams to help the Turks master the modern equipment of war.

Turkey’s capacity to return to normal will be exceptionally difficult given the extent of the earthquake damage it suffers from. Its economy has for some time been devastated by its rampant inflation resulting from President Erdogan’s ill-informed economic decisions. Bracing for an upcoming election, now scheduled for May 14, the Turkish President faces further difficulties amidst  growing criticisms about the Turkish government’s inadequate response to Turkey’s two earthquakes.

After my mother returned from the 11 a.m. service (my dad rarely went to church), we had our traditional full Sunday dinner with all of us sitting around the dining room table. My grandmother had probably helped prepare the dinner because walking to church was too much for her, and we had no car. After dinner Forest and Harlan usually went out to play with neighbor boys but only after obeying my father’s command, that they sit on the front porch for the required 15 minutes of “rest” (to let their food digest). I usually stayed inside glued to the radio in the living room, listening to the marvelous Sunday afternoon radio broadcasts of classical music.

With the arrival of the football season, my brothers and I would huddle around the radio—huddle so as not to disturb unduly the rest of the family sitting around the living room talking and reading—to listen to the Green Bay Packer games. Like most kids in the neighborhood, we were Green Bay Packers fans and waited anxiously for the 2 pm. radio broadcast to begin. In that pre-television age, radio announcers faced the challenge of describing in words the py action so that listeners could visualize the game on the field. 

It was probably sometime during the first quarter of the game that Sunday when a serious voice interrupted the broadcast with a special announcement. The announcer said that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor early that morning, inflicting considerable damage and injuring many American military personnel. We were told to listen for further announcements. Later that day we heard reports of Japanese submarines off the coast of California, shelling on the Oregon coast, and still later reports of Japanese attacks on the Philippines, Singapore, and other spots in the South Pacific.

You can’t imagine how stunned we were. Though the brutal Japanese war against China was well known, and there were intimations of a growing conflict between Japan and the US after we cut our oil exports to Japan, the idea that war could occur was inconceivable.

Little did we realize how the events of that day would change our lives and those of all Americans. We remember hearing President Roosevelt the next day addressing Congress and the American people, calling for a declaration of war against Japan. He described the surprise attack on December 7, 1941 as “a day which will live in infamy.” And so it was. A major portion of our Pacific naval fleet sunk, many of our airplanes destroyed, more than 2400 servicemen killed, and another 1,300 wounded.

And so the war began on December 7, 1941. It became a successor to “The Great War” that was going to be “the war to end all wars.” What became World War II led to the demotion of The Great War to World War I. Our war with Japan continued in earnest, ending only with the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan in August 1945, almost four years after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.

We stood at attention in silence to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the 11 a.m. November 11, 1918 end of what has become known as World War I, “a war to end all wars,” according to President Wilson. We also stood to honor the more than 50,000 young American soldiers who died fighting in France.

When I arrived home that afternoon I felt troubled on seeing the day’s mail. It included a yellow envelope that appeared to be a telegram addressed to our father. When Dad came home from work he moved to his favorite living room chair and started opening the mail. Suddenly he cried out: “It’s Jim!”

We saw him holding what was a War Department telegram beginning with the by now familiar words: “We regret to inform you .  .  .  .” It went on to say that our older brother Jim had been killed in combat in Italy on October 27, 1943.  How heart-breaking for all of us, trying to take in this devastating news. In the days that followed, Jim’s death was not something we could easily talk about with each other, with schoolmates, or with neighborhood friends. We simply had to live with it and continue on with our lives.

We soon received from the Racine American Legion Post a new service flag with its gold star to replace our blue star flag.  Letters arrived from several of Jim’s buddies offering their sympathy. Not long after that we received a box with Jim’s personal effects: his wallet, several recent letters we sent to him, a couple of family photos, a pocket knife, and several pieces of military currency.

Some months later news came that Jim had been awarded posthumously a Silver Star for battlefield valor. He served as a forward observer whose dangerous assignment was to move beyond the front lines and direct artillery fire on enemy targets.        

Several years after the war ended, another letter arrived asking whether my folks wanted Jim’s remains sent back to the U.S. or buried in the newly constructed American military cemetery in Nettuno, Italy. They wisely opted for his burial there with his fellow soldiers.

My several visits over the years to Jim’s grave are always a mix of sadness offset by respect for the 7,860 soldiers killed in Sicily and southern Italy who lie buried there, in the silent beauty of the well cared-for cemetery.  Each of its white marble grave markers in the sea of perfectly spaced and aligned rows of crosses and occasional stars of David lists the soldier’s name and rank, military unit, home state, and date of death.
                        JAMES W. HANSEN
                        SGT 125 FA BN 34 DIV
                        MINNESOTA OCT 27 1943

On each visit TO Jim’s grave I see fewer American visitors. Soon no visiting Americans will have any personal memories of those buried there. My two brothers and I, Korean War veterans now in our nineties, are doubtless the only living persons who knew our brother Jim.  And soon we too will be gone.

We hope younger generations of Americans will remember and honor the almost 300,000 World War II battle deaths among young Americans they never knew but who sacrificed so much for all of us.

​Yi-Fu Tuan’s death on August 10, 2022 (see Yi-Fu's obituary "UW–Madison mourns influential, beloved geography professor Yi-Fu Tuan") , ended twenty-five years of our always
stimulating Saturday morning conversations at the campus Starbucks coffee shop
on lower State Street and more recently at Capitol Lakes. These conversations began by accident. My wife Sally and I regularly stopped at the Café Expresso for coffee after our early Saturday morning visits to Madison’s downtown Farmer’s Market and a quick “hello” to our long-time friend and neighbor Caryl Askins who operated Paul’s bookstore. One morning Yi-Fu stopped in for coffee enroute to his office in Science Hall.

The third time this happened, I went over and asked him to join us. He agreed, telling us later that on the previous Saturday he thought about asking if he could join us but worried he might interrupt our newspaper reading.

​And so our regular Saturday morning conversations continued, and we soon moved to Starbucks across the street. These conversations were enriched by Yi-Fu’s intellectual curiosity, his wide-ranging knowledge, as well as accounts of his
current writing projects. One of them was his nearly completed autobiography,
Who Am I? After we indicated an interest in reading it, he brought a draft that
described his fascinating childhood in China, his early escape from China, his
education in Australia, England, and Berkeley, and his career as a geographer here
at UW-Madison. Sally, an English instructor at what is now known as Madison College, discovered to Yi-Fu’s embarrassment a couple of minor grammatical errors. With this, he realized we had more serious interests than Badger football and the Green Bay Packers.

And so our Saturday morning conversations continued, going on for an hour and
on occasion a bit longer. These conversations ranged widely and flowed smoothly.

Several topics kept popping up, one being the UW’s ever-growing commitment to
“diversity.” Both Yi-Fu and I had strong objections to the practice of giving
preferences to minority students in admissions and financial aid programs. So after commenting on the latest twist in this unending story, we moved on to discuss more profound topics.

Yi-Fu was a marvelous conversationalist as might be expected by regular readers
of his “Dear Colleague” letters and his many books, most particularly by his best
known book, Space and Place. No matter what the topic of conversation might be, he could offer illuminating comments: historical, philosophical, political, and
geographical. He could pull up comments from his wide-ranging reading and his
incredible memory of writers, such as C. S. Lewis, Leo Tolstoy, and Hannah
Arendt. His memory showed no sign of decline as he aged. And he charmed his
conversational partners because he was so gentle in his comments about others,
though his attitudes toward them were usually made clear by the questions he
raised.

Yi-Fu’s face was engagingly expressive as he talked. When he said something
startling or daring, his eyes brightened. his eyebrows arched upwards, and he
laughed in an impish way, as if to say: ”And what do you think of that?” Often he
spoke with his eyes closed, as if he was trying to visualize how his words would
look in print. At other times he paused while recounting something he read---he
actually stopped talking---leading his listeners to wonder whether he had lost his
way in what he was trying to say. But, then he started up again and went on to
finish his story.

Yi-Fu’s appearance changed with the seasons. In summer he wore a blue
seersucker jacket topped with a tropical pith helmet from his Panama days. In fall,
it was a light jacket and his Minnesota Golden Gophers knit cap to ward off the
chill. Despite his 40 years in Madison, he never sported a Bucky Badger cap,
perhaps because the colors were too bright! In winter he appeared as a looming
giant almost hidden in a bulky parka with his eyes peering out through his fur lined hood.

The only significant and visible change in Yi-Fu’s appearance over the years was
the walking stick given to him by his students. They knew it would help him avert
a fall on the icy streets and sidewalks of Madison’s winters. He soon learned to
know the locations of the worst spots as every morning he strolled down the “Yi-

Not long after my parents departed a local farmer who raised lots of strawberries arrived with one crate of fresh strawberries my mother had ordered to make strawberry jam.  As I recall, the crate contained 16 one-quart boxes of strawberries. I could see immediately that the berries were ripe and needed to be canned right away rather than having them wait until the next morning when Mom would be back. I realized my 85 year-old grandmother and I would have to get busy with the canning.

My grandmother immediately volunteered to help if I decided to go ahead and make the jam. I had never done this before but had seen my Mother doing the canning in prior years. Fortunately, we had a number of half-quart jars in the  fruit cellar and everything else what we needed.

So, we began the laborious job of  cutting out the stems of the strawberries so we could proceed. I don't recall what other operations were required. The cleaned berries had to be cooked, the jars sterilized, and then filled with the jam. I think we had to add sugar, pektin(?) and perhaps something else to make sure the jam became jam rather than jelly. After completing that operation, we had to fill the jars and after that pour a layer of melted parrafin over the top of each jar to preserve the jam.  We were just finishing up when my parents arrived home about 8 pm. They had had a good time at the Fair and mentioned some of the highlights. My Mom was especially pleased that grandma and I had taken on the strawberry jam canning project. Through the coming winter I took more than usual pleasure in putting jam on my bread and relishing its great taste.

​Ah, the benefits of helping both myself and the rest of the family.

Newspapers always played a central role in my life. As kids, we sprang to our feet at the thud of the Racine Journal-Times landing on the front porch. Whoever brought in the paper doled out the individual sheets so my two younger brothers and I could read sprawled on the living room floor while my mother and older sister did the same sitting in our comfortable living room chairs. My older brother Jim, serving in the army overseas, had favored the dining room table.
Central to our newspaper reading was the paperboy, who delivered the paper every day except Sunday and came to the house every Thursday afternoon to collect the weekly subscription fee. We kids all knew the paperboy and looked up to him. Secretly, we all aspired to become carriers when we were older. It was the early 1940s, and these jobs offered a start in life for young boys whose early years had been scarred by the Great Depression. For the rest of the story, download the PDF .

Knowing the Dunham house in Warsaw would be crammed with visitors, we decided to put off our visit until sometime this summer. In fact, we recently signed up for an Elderhostel June 17 to July 3, 2008, whose theme is: “In the Footsteps of the European Jews.” The program begins in Budapest, moves on the Prague, then to Krakow, and finally to Warsaw. Based on what several of you have said about your trips to Budapest and Prague, we are eager to visit these beautiful cities. After the Elderhostel ends in early July, we plan to spend some of time visiting the Dunhams in Warsaw. .
 
January 1, 2008
Nana and I made out our New Year’s resolutions, most of them calling for moderation in all things. Careful diets, ample exercise, socializing with friends, and maintaining our current intellectual activities. One of mine is to write up shorter or longer recollections of my life and adventures, and that is what prompts this long epistle.  Then, of course, there is the weather. During the first 10 days of December we must have had about 20 inches of snow, with more falling as the month progressed for a total of more than 33 inches, for the highest total to date since 2000 with its 35 inches. 
 
January 11, 2008
On this date in 1951 my folks accompanied me down to Memorial Hall in Racine where I joined a group of other young men to be sworn into the U. S. Army; I was drafted to take part in what became known as the Korean War. I was apprehensive in the months leading up to January 11, knowing that I would soon be in the Army and very likely sent to fight in South Korea or, if not there, to be stationed in Western Europe. Little did I realize I would end up in far away Turkey where I would assist in training Turkish troops to fight in Korea. More important was our role under the Truman Doctrine to help modernize the Turkey Army as part of our Cold War commitment to contain the Soviet Union. Which accounts for the travels I describe below.
 
December 24, 2007
Reading in the New York Times about the many people gathering in Jerusalem and Bethlehem for the Christmas 2007 celebrations reminded me on my visit there back in December 1952—55 years ago! How quickly time passes. Many memories of my visit are quite clear, whereas others have faded into the past. Before they fade away completely, I decided they should be written down for future generations. So, let me talk about my memory of that visit and rest of my travels in December 1952.
 
The NYT  reported that this year 65,000 visitors were expected in Bethlehem and Jerusalem. This large figure led me to wonder whether the 1952 crowd had been of comparable size, Based on my recollections, I doubted it but wanted to be sure. To check, I went back to the letters I wrote home while in military service—my mother thoughtfully saved them for me—to see what if anything I had said about my visit to the Holy Land. Sadly, I wrote very little about the trip—mostly some cryptic impressions. I am surprised because while overseas I regularly wrote home (with copies to my sister and brothers) once a week, usually a two-page typewritten letter. On rereading those letters I find myself surprised both by what I did say and what I did not. This discovery is what prompts me to write so extensively about my trip to the Holy Land and the other places I visited on that trip.
 
One explanation as to why I did not write is that the Holy Land visit came near the end of an eventful two-week trip around the Eastern Mediterranean, and I failed to take the time after returning to record my adventures. There may have been too much to say because the trip proved to be a long one. After journeying by car from Iskenderun where I was stationed in southern Turkey to Aleppo in northern Syria and then on to Beirut Lebanon for a couple of days, I flew to Nicosia in Cyprus, on to Cairo Egypt and then back to Beirut, followed by a journey by car to Jerusalem and Bethlehem for a couple of days. On the way back to Iskenderun, I visited briefly in Amman Jordan, spent a couple of days in Damascus Syria , stopped in briefly in Baalbek Syria for a look at the impressive ruins there, drove through Homs Syria (a town that in the late 1980s was reduced to rubble because the people of that ancient city were restive under the rule of Assad, and when they persisted he brought in his artillery, ringed the units around the city, and then bombarded the place for some days), stayed overnight in Aleppo, and then headed back “home” to Iskenderun. 
 
My curiosity aroused by the New York Times article, I checked the December 24, 1952 edition of the Times. There I found an article that answered my question. It indicated that about 12,000 visitors were expected in Jerusalem and Bethlehem, including many Americans and about 4,000 Christians who lived in Israel and had not been able to travel to Jerusalem since the 1947 war that led to the creation of Israel. As you may (or may not) know, the old city of Jerusalem was then part of Jordan; the rest of the city was in Israel territory (and had been since 1947); now it is all in Israel territory. The two parts of Jerusalem were separated by a several hundred yard “no man’s land” where sudden death could be in the cards for anyone who tried to venture across. I should add that if you wanted to go to Israel, you had to travel via Cyprus because direct travel from Arab countries to Israel and vice versa was not allowed. Indeed, if your passport showed you had visit an Arab country, you had to go to the American embassy in a third country and get some extra pages for your passport before you could fly into Israel. Most complicated, which is why I didn’t get to Israel proper.
 
But back to the visit. I remember visiting Bethlehem’s Church of the Nativity for the traditional  religious services on Christmas eve. There was a bit of a crowd but not nearly as many as the Times article suggested (maybe most of the visitors remained in Jerusalem). Though the church was filled, there was plenty of standing room at the back. The service, as I recall, is what I would describe as High Episcopalian. I can’t say I was particularly moved by it. Yes, many people back in the States would have given their eye teeth to be there. Perhaps it was the influence of a couple of years of Army life that had hardened me to any possible emotional impact from a visit to Bethlehem.
 
Visiting the historic sights in Jerusalem proved to be more interesting—the Via Doloroso (12 stations of the Cross), the not very attractive Church of the Holy Sepulcher (part of one wall is propped up by giant steel girders) containing the tomb of Jesus which is maintained by representatives of Christianity, the Greek Orthodox Church, Jews, and Muslims, the Dome of the Rock and the AlAqsa mosque (the second oldest Muslim temple and a sacred site for Muslims) both built atop the Temple of the Mount which was the site of Solomon’s temple, the Wailing Wall (a sacred site for the Jews that at the time was much less exposed than now after extensive Israeli excavations), plus the Mount of Olives and Gethemane just outside Jerusalem.  Fortunately, I had done some reading beforehand, particularly several books by the popular travel writer, H. V.  Morton, whose books included In the Steps of the Master, Lands of the Bible, and In the Steps of St Paul. Runciman’s several volume treatise on The Crusades was also most helpful.
 
Because of a shortage of hotel rooms in the Jerusalem area, we (I was with two civilians guys –actually Hawaiians working on the Iskenderun naval base construction project-- who I met up with in Beirut) were put up at the American School for Oriental Research where we dined with the staff, slept on simple cots in one of their extra rooms. Interestingly, the school was founded in the early 1920s by a Johns Hopkins professor, the famous archeologist F. W. Albright, whom I saw in the mid-1950s when I was a graduate student at Hopkins; he could often be seen in his office trying to piece together shards of pottery. I discovered among my artifacts from the trip the business card of the school Director, a man named Tushingham. I also recall meeting Kathleen Kenyon who as Director of the British School of Archeology was working with Tushingham and his people excavating the old city of Jericho. Their question was why did the walls fall down. A bugle blast, an earthquake, or the ravages of time? I found it most interesting to visit with these people and even to contemplate the life of an archeologist.
 
While in the vicinity, we swam in the Dead Sea (we floated because of its heavy salt content) and we visited the Allenby Bridge which crossed the River Jordan. The river fell short of our expectations. It was little more than what we would call a small creek, it was shallow, and it looked incapable of carrying any significant amount of water from one place to another. The Allenby bridge, named after a famous British general, was built back in 1917 when the British were fighting the Ottomans (essentially, the Turks). The bridge was destroyed in 1947 when the Israeli insurgents fought to push the Brits out of the area. That bridge may well have been mentioned in T. E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom: A Triumph. . 
 
The weather in that couple of weeks proved to be exceptional, with severe storms ravaging the entire Eastern Mediterranean area. Most of the time it was cloudy except for a couple of good clear days in Cairo. But, the trip provided lots of excitement because of the weather. Flying from Cyprus to Cairo, we had to land in Alexandria because of a dust storm at the Cairo airport. The weather was so bad flying from Cairo to Beirut a couple of days later that the pilot of the two-engine DC-3 had to descend to an altitude of about 500 feet trying all the while to maintain that altitude between the stormy clouds overhead and the raging seas below. The rough weather caused the plane to bounce up and down repeatedly, causing many people to become airsick. I gritted my teeth and so was able to retain my lunch despite the foul odor throughout the plane’s cabin.
 
As the plane landed at the Beirut airport I saw a large French ship, the Champollion, carrying more than 100 pilgrims to the Holy Land, that had gone aground about 600 yards from shore and was lying partly on its side, There was no way for the passengers and crew to come ashore because of the rough water. I went over the shore where rescue operations were being mounted, unsuccessfully. Remember, helicopters were not yet available. Later when the ship broke in two and on the orders of the captain about 70 people donned life jackets and attempted to swim to shore. More than 26 people drowned, many of them smashed against the rocky shoreline. Eventually, several small boats managed to get to the wreckage and take off the remaining passengers and crew. Quite exciting. Incidentally, a number of ships were sunk or grounded and numerous lives were claimed by the storm.
 
Several days later on the way by car (in that part of the world land travel was done by limousine usually pre-World War II Chryslers) from Damascus to Beirut a heavy snow in the mountains east of Beirut blocked the highway, forcing us to drive back down the mountain, south to the next highway (a not very good one) going west through the same mountain range but at a lower elevation to ancient Sidon, and finally north along the coast to Beirut in what amounted to a long, long detour.
 
The great appeal of travel to large cities, particularly Beirut (then known as “the Paris of the Middle East”), is that they afforded modern amenities—first-rate hotels, excellent French cooking, lively night clubs, and interesting shops to purchase souvenirs to send home. This was a marked contrast to life in primitive Iskenderun.  In Beirut I visited the American University up in the hills overlooking the city. In the mid-1980s the American President of the university, a political scientist I had known at UCLA, was assassinated in his office; this event was an outgrowth of the civil war that began in Lebanon in the late 1960s and continues to this very day. Cyprus was like a small version of beautiful England with its ancient fortifications and quiet life; I stayed at the King George Hotel which a year or two later was firebombed as unrest swept the island. In Cairo I took the standard camel ride (I have pictures to prove it), climbed the Great Pyramid, got an up-close look at the Sphinx, toured several of Cairo’s large mosques, and visited Cairo’s then run-down museum with its many treasures including those from King Tut’s tomb. Interestingly, the famous Shepherd’s Hotel, just a couple of blocks from the hotel where I stayed, had been burned down a few months before my arrival during the anti-British riots and the deposing on King Farouk.
 
I was and continue to be pleased with my acquisitions. In Cairo I purchased the cover of a burial urn which is shaped like the head of a ruling queen. Though the back of the head got scratched from my travel, the face is untouched. In Aleppo I purchased a high quality Kashan rug roughly 5x7 feet for $25 which I was able to get back into Turkey without having to pay any duty. One of our officers who had a diplomatic passport let me put the rug into his valpack and thereby protect it from the prying eyes of the Turkish customs officials (the rug adorns our bedroom floor and looks even more beautiful than when I purchased it.
 
In Damascus I came upon a fascinating painting of the Hajj depicting the annual pilgrimage to Mecca. It was painted on the back of the glass; the colors are brown, gold, and orange. This painting obviously presented an interesting challenge because whatever was to be in the foreground had to be painted first and then covered over with paint for the background; often, multiple colors were involved. I always recalled paying about $10 for the painting but I dug through old papers from my Army days and located the receipt—I paid only $4 for the painting! But, two challenges remained. One was getting it through customs into Turkey which I did by stashing it behind the front seat of the car, held up by the cord running behind the front seat; at that time this cord helped people pull themselves into and out of the back car seat. We then threw our coats over the back of the front seat, thus hiding the package containing the painting. Though the customs officials looked inside the car, they did not probe any further. The other challenge was getting the painting back to the States without it breaking. I asking a fellow I knew from the international construction company crew to build a plywood box to ship the painting home. I packed it carefully, it arrived safely back home in Racine. It has hung on our walls at 3215 Topping Road ever since we moved to Madison 46 years ago. Sally has frequently remarked about this purchase as well as my rug purchases in Syria and Turkey: “Who but you would have ever bought something like this.” By contrast, most of my fellow soldiers spent their money of wine, women, and song.
 
But, there is more to the story. Our daughter Ellen who is doing a masters degree in museum studies has decided to write a thesis on Islamic art and to use this painting as the center piece of the thesis. She has already learned of a “school” of Damascus artists who painted on glass, and she is now trying to get more details about that group. The story of the Hajj is interesting. Elaborate processions of worshipers set out for Mecca every year from Damascus and from Cairo (though this kind of pilgrimage was ended in the 1920's as too expensive and no longer needed with the advent of the railways and motor transportation). At the time, however, people had to travel on camels and horses.
 
The order of the march was rigidly prescribed. The entourage began with a small military band, then a small group of soldiers to protect everyone from local robbers who liked to plunder the mostly well-off people who could afford to be away during the long round-trip (probably 800-1,000 miles each way!), followed by the head of the pilgrimage and his assistants, ranking dignitaries, the dean of the linear descendants of the Prophet, the muezzins and students who surrounded the Mahmal (this pyramid-shaped symbol of the authority of the Sultin-Caliph was a wooden structure mounted on a camel and decorated with a cloth covered with arabic inscriptions praising Allah, etc., and inside the Mahmal was a copy of the Quran, an expensive rug for Mecca, other gifts, and special beeswax candles for lighting the shrines in Mecca). Then came the dervishes, followed by the mounted Bedouin escorts with their weapons, drums, and other musical instruments; in addition, there was a retinue of servants to put up tents, cook meals, etc. All of this must have made for a colorful sight. The only photos available are in black and white and typically not very sharp. The procession is not portrayed in linear fashion on the glass painting but the various components are shown in what is a fascinating portrait.
 
To sum up, my Middle East trip proved to be most enjoyable and highly informative. It gave me an appreciation for Middle Eastern geography, culture, and politics. In addition, the trip left an indelible impression on me, which is why I have been able to write as extensively about the trip as I have. On reading this essay, my wife Sally remarked that it doesn’t say much about people I met or my reactions to what I did and saw. True. The main reason is that I can’t find a notebook in which I recorded that information. Whether I could recollect that information with any accuracy is doubtful.
 
Addendum (6/7/09) to “Traveling Through the Eastern Mediterranean December 1952: A Letter to Family and Friends.” 
 
In my essay I mentioned staying at the American School for Oriental Research while in Jerusalem around Christmas in December 1952. After composing this essay, I decided to find out more about the School and Kathy Kenyon. I checked with an archeologist friend, formerly a next-door neighbor, to find out what he knew about her. He put me onto a recently-published history of the American School, a volume that contains an essay he wrote. He also told me that a biography of Kathy Kenyon was being written and he would let me know when it appears.
 
Reading through the Seger history (Seger, Joe D., ed. 2001. An ASOR Mosaic: a Centennial History of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 1900-2000. Boston, ASOR) and seeing the photos it contains brought back memories of my stay there. Of course, the small trees around the building at the time are now fully grown, and an addition has been built. In any case, the various essays describe the excavations undertaken under the auspices of the School that date back to the days of Albright. The book also describes briefly the collaboration between ASOR and the British School of Archeology in the excavations at Jericho.  All of this whetted my appetite to read the Kenyon book.
 
The book on Kenyon is even more interesting (Davis, Miriam C. 2008. Dame Kathleen Kenyon: Digging in the Holy Land. University College of London. Institute of Archeology Publications).   Kenyon (1906-1978) was best known for her discovery that Jericho dated back to 2600 B.C. rather than the 1200 B.C. date established by another Brit, Joshua Wells. Her claim to fame rests on her method of debris analysis. It called for digging straight-cut trenches and as this was done examining meticulously the layers of sediment as they were excavated. Her speciality was pottery and she looked for evidence of changes in the remains of pottery found as she dug down. The straight-cut trenches meant that other investigators could check on her work—in effect, the site was not destroyed in the process of excavation. She excavated actively until the 1967 war after which it became more difficult to obtain permission to dig. In addition, the Israelis took a different approach. They were quite willing to commander possible excavation sites and if necessary destroy whatever structures were on the site. This gave them an enormous advantage in making new discoveries.
 
By this time she was world famous in archeological circles and eventually became the vice-chancellor of one of the women’s colleges at Oxford. She was not ideally suited for the job, in part I suspect because of her drinking. After retiring from that job she retreated to the English countryside and lived a quiet life until her death in the late 1970s. Kenyon was an interesting, adventurous women who succeeded in an occupation dominated by men. And she proved herself able to operate in a Muslim world that was labeled on most maps as Palestine. A very colorful woman whom I was privileged to meet.

To me, Turkey is and always has been intriguing. For someone who had done virtually no traveling outside  the upper Middle West states, everything on my arrival in Turkey in late spring 1952 proved to be new and surprising—its mountains and vast uninhabitable areas, its people and how they dressed, their religious and social customs, the primitive living conditions they endured, their rudimentary agricultural techniques, the underdeveloped road system, the absence of modern technology, and the ‘bombsight” toilet facilities. So too was its history, as evidenced by unexplored ruins everywhere. Fifty years later, Turkey is still an alluring place to visit. Much has changed. Yet much remains the same. The country, though experiencing many difficulties, remains as intriguing as ever.
 
In reflecting on my wonderful return visit, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Leonard Woolf’s description of his return to Sri Lanka (Ceylon as he knew it) 50 years after serving there as a young District Officer; see Woolf’s autobiography: Growing (1961) on his years in Ceylon from 1904-11, and The Journey Not the Arrival Matters (1969) on his life from 1939 onwards, including his 1960 return. The major changes I observed after my long period away from Turkey are remarkably similar to those Woolf noted on his return to Sri Lanka. But, the changes I observed differ significantly in detail, as will soon be apparent.
 
In preparing for this Elderhostel trip, a three-week program called “Troy to Civilization”, I read  the recommended books on modern Turkey, the Ottoman Empire, and much more. But, like Woolf, I was able to relive important parts of my earlier visit, thanks to my “packrat” tendencies. In the attic I located an old carton containing my weekly letters home (saved by my parents), a file of old military records, a collection of newspaper and magazine articles about Turkey from the early 1950s, and an assortment of old hotel receipts, colorful hotel stickers for suitcases, and other small items related to my travels.  I also located my photo album and slide collection, as well as local maps and guidebooks. What I found proved to be surprising. My old letters mentioned many long-forgotten events; equally important and somewhat perplexing, they omitted other important events and impressions that remain etched in my mind. My photo and slide collection proved to be much less complete and systematic than I remembered it to be.  What all this proves is that our memory often plays tricks on us; we simply don’t recall much of the richness of our early experiences. That is what makes confronting the past so fascinating.
 
Unlike Leonard Woolf who returned to official welcomes by Sri Lanka officialdom, I slipped back into Turkey in the company of 33 Elderhostelers eager to see the glories of Turkey’s past civilizations. Earlier I had arrived as a member of the US Army Group, part of the Joint American Military Mission for Aid to Turkey (JAMMAT). The atmosphere was quite different then, with both the Korean War and the Cold War in full play. This particular Mission constituted an important element in the Truman Doctrine’s goal of containing Soviet expansion. In particular, it sought to establish an effective counter force to the USSR; periodically, the Russians issued provocative threats from across Turkey’s mountainous eastern border. Equally important, as a new member of NATO, Turkey’s military establishment needed help to enhance its fighting capabilities, particularly in employing modern military technology. Nobody questioned the effectiveness of Turks as fighters—the army brigade sent to Korea distinguished itself for bravery and willingness, even eagerness, to engage in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy.
 
JAMMAT’s mission depended on the work of small field training teams of American officers and enlisted men with technical specialities. These teams worked with local Turkish military units; team members lived in nearby towns.  At the program’s peak about 50 field training teams operated in Turkey, with another dozen teams assigned to military schools and specialized bases.  When I joined Field Training Team 39D in Iskenderun (on the Mediterranean Sea just north of the Syrian border), it included three officers and five enlisted men. The normal tour of duty was one year (Turkey was viewed as a “hardship” post); this meant that people rotated regularly through these teams. (I stayed there almost 18 months, to round out the remainder of my 33-plus months of military service.)
 
For regular army personnel, these adviser assignments proved to be frustrating. Being an effective adviser required great patience because interacting with Turkish military personnel meant working through interpreters, a time consuming and difficult process. Being an effective adviser also required great patience because the Turkish army still operated at a pre-WWII level and without modern military technology. Most Turkish officers and enlisted men had no direct experience with the technology of a modern army. Nor did they have the background to adapt easily to new technology. Indeed, they were quite unlike Americans who had grown up working with tools, fiddling with radios, repairing old cars; this difference made the adviser’s job even tougher.
 
For me, my tour of duty in Turkey proved to be richly rewarding, filled with travel and learning. Being newly drafted into the Army shortly after the Korean War began (I had just graduated from college) and having served in an administrative capacity at 5th Army Headquarters in Chicago,  I did not have the kind of technical expertise possessed by fellow team members. During my eight months in Iskenderun my job involved handling the team’s administrative tasks, courier duties, supervising our numerous interpreters, and managing our living quarters; we were fortunate in messing with an international construction company building a huge naval base there. During my subsequent stay in Konya, located about 150 miles south of Ankara and the site of a larger 15-man team, I performed similar duties. Except that I was in charge of feeding everyone, including frequent visitors. This required me to train two Turkish cooks in American-style cooking, plan menus, supervise the purchase of local supplies, and from time to time deal with complaints about the food from my colleagues.
 
The job, though interesting, was not particularly demanding. While in Iskenderun, I had ample time to explore nearby Crusader castles, Roman ruins along the southern coast of Turkey, the battleground at Issus where Alexander defeated Darius, historic Antioch of Biblical fame, out-of-the way villages, and closely situated mountain peaks. While in Konya there were other ruins to see. But, in addition to my regular duties there, I taught English to Turkish army officers. I also taught evening classes to groups of young people, mostly students, wanting to improve their English. These experiences, augmented by opportunities for extensive travel through the Middle East and Europe, proved to be immensely interesting and satisfying.
 
Serving in Turkey also gave me a first-hand chance not only to learn more about ancient history but also about the problems of economic development. I quickly became aware of the formidable challenge of trying to spur modernization and economic activity in a country like Turkey. Little did I know then how important this exposure would be in stimulating my interest in economics and economic research. Nor did I realize that my experience teaching English would lead me to discover that I enjoyed teaching; undoubtedly it influenced my decision to become a college teacher.
 
But, back to the Elderhostel. What most impressed me about the Elderhostel? Like the two previous international programs I attended, one in Assisi (Fall 2000) and the other in Russia (Fall 2001), this Elderhostel program reflected careful planning. The itinerary provided a rich menu of interesting visits, the guide was very knowledgeable, the food and accommodations were excellent, and the varied backgrounds of my ever-curious traveling companions contributed to everyone’s learning and enjoyment. Our guide was a most amusing fellow. He took great delight in explaining how wonderful Elderhostelers were; he never had to worry whether we were getting to bed early enough to be ready for the next morning’s activity!
 
Most of what I saw on this trip  was new to me. While stationed in Turkey 50 years ago, most of my traveling took place along Turkey’s southern Mediterranean coast and later around the Konya area; I also took numerous trips to Ankara and briefly visited Istanbul en route back to the States. Among the most memorable stops on my return visits were the Mevlana Museum and Mosque which is the home of Konya’s Whirling Dervishes, the impressive sites in Ankara (notably the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations and Ataturk’s tomb), and Istanbul’s stunning Topaki Palace, St. Sophia, and the Blue Mosque, plus the Grand Bazaar.
 
An important reason for making this trip was to fill important gaps in my earlier travels. Of major interest were my visits to what remains of Homer’s historic Troy, the remarkable and at least partially excavated ruins of the great ancient cities of Pergama and Ephesus, the relatively unexcavated ruins of Aphrodisias, Hierapolis, and Antioch-in-Pisidia, the remarkable underground cities of Cappadocia, the mysterious Hittite ruins at Bogazkale (east of Ankara), the impressive tomb of King Midas at Gordium (west of Ankara), plus the fabled Green Mosque in Bursa. Turkey contains a remarkably large and diverse collection of historic ruins, representing the remnants of a long succession of civilizations. After returning home, I discovered an historical atlas (e.g., Philips Atlas of World History, 1999) that helped me better understand the ebb and flow of the many different civilizations that once flourished in what we now call Turkey.
 
Pergama and Ephesus are the most impressive of the new sites I visited. Pergama’s vast ruins are unique for their location, at the top of a high hill that afforded needed protection for the city and its inhabitants from invading armies during its heyday, in the 2nd and 3rd centuries BC. Pergama was also noted for its famous library of more than 200,000 books, rivaled only by the library at Alexandria. Though the original structures are long gone as a result of earthquakes, wars, and destruction, the site stands out for its huge theater, the temples of Dionysus, Trajan, and Athena, and the altar of Zeus. Nearby was the impressive Asciepion of Pergamum, an ancient medical center where practitioners experimented with various therapies for the ailing.
 
Ephesus is the best preserved and probably the most thoroughly excavated site we visited. Its scale is remarkable, with its large theater, expansive agora, magnificent library (connected by an underground tunnel to a brothel across the street!---or so we were told), its water and sewage system, its paved main street, as well as an assortment of temples and fountains. Visiting these sites makes you realize that despite current claims about our sophistication and technological advances, these early people possessed exceptional talent. They achieved so much despite the limited tools and resources available to them.
 
A firmer appreciation of what these early people accomplished grew out of a brief exchange while walking through the long tunnel into the center of King Midas’ tomb (at Gordium) which dates from the 8th Century BC.  Someone wondered aloud how much time and effort was required to construct the large mound of dirt covering the tomb; the mound is a cone 57 meters high and 300 meters in diameter. The answer lies in calculating the volume of a cone, and estimating how big a load of dirt a worker could carry and how many loads a worker could carry in a single day. Making reasonable assumptions about these latter two variables and carrying out the calculations produces an astounding result: as much as 10,000 man years of work was needed to complete the job. Put another way, building this cone would require a force of 1,000 men working every day for 10 years! This estimate ignores the additional manpower, whether slave or free, required to feed, clothe, and protect this army of workers. In the surrounding countryside there are dozens of additional smaller cones. The magnitude of this civilization’s accomplishments is most impressive. Comparable calculations of the raw manpower and the fine skills of stone carving required to create Pergama and Ephesus would help us appreciate the immense resources required to build these places and the highly developed organizational skills these people had already developed.
 
The Elderhostel trip itinerary did not allow for several visits I would like to have made. We did not go anywhere near Iskenderun where I spent my first eight months in Turkey (Spring 1952 to late winter 1953). Our visit to Konya where I served from late winter 1953 until my return to the US in fall 1953 was much too brief. Having enough time to make these visits worthwhile would have required arriving in Turkey at least several days early so I could spend a day or two in Iskenderun and another day or two in Konya. I finally decided that adding these visits would be complicated and unduly prolong my trip. Enroute home after the Elderhostel I wanted to visit a brother and his wife in England as well as one of our daughters and her family who recently moved to London.
 
What about Turkish carpets? Yes, I did purchase three of them, not for us but for our two children. My fascination with Turkish rugs began shortly after arriving in Turkey. While traveling through Aleppo Syria in September 1952 I purchased my first carpet, a Kashan that cost perhaps $25. Later in Konya I purchased a Turkish bokhara made in a rug weaving establishment.  Later, in the maze of shops in the center of Konya, I bought an interesting looking and quite primitive Anatolian prayer rug. Over the years we have greatly enjoyed the beauty and durability of these rugs; the prayer rug hangs over my desk and I frequently glance at it while searching for a particular word as I write. As you might guess, I could not resist looking and then buying the rugs we were seeing everywhere in Turkey. We visited two rug Handicraft Production Centers that try to preserve the art of rug-making while at the same time offering tourists a vast array of choices among rugs that are presumably authentic reproductions of local designs and of good quality. No much bargaining can take place, but the array of rugs was impressive and the skill in displaying and selling them proved to be irresistible. I purchased three rugs, two for Ellen and family and one for Martha. They were both thrilled to receive them. Eventually, they will receive other Turkish rugs because we have them in most every room.
 
What impressions emerged from my trip? As noted earlier, my overall impressions parallel those of Leonard Woolf but differ significantly in detail. Most apparent is the faster tempo of life, something that Woolf noted. Again, automobiles have done much to speed things up. Back in 1950, Turkey possessed an estimated 12,000 automobiles (6 per 10,000 people) as contrasted to 6,000,000 today (about 1000 per 10,000 population). For those who remember the 1950s, the ratio for the U.S. was vastly greater, about 2200 per 10,000 population. Back then, whether in cities or the countryside, you were far more likely to see donkey-drawn wagons moving down the street than even a single automobile. Buses in the earlier period were ancient and dilapidated; they were always jammed with people and carried on their roof racks all kinds of luggage, including live chickens in cages. Now, with the building of a modern highway network, cars are numerous, huge trucks speed along the roadways, modern buses run between major cities, and local jitneys cruise the streets and  highways picking up and discharging passengers along the way. 
 
Turkey’s communication infrastructure varied. I usually received international airmail from Wisconsin in five days, on rare occasions in four days. By contrast, making telephone calls was much more difficult. A phone call to the US called for making initial contact with a local operator in say Konya; that operator connected another  operator in Ankara who in turn connected with an operator in Istanbul (meanwhile each of these operators had to hold open the connecting line) who in turn contacted an operator in London who then contacted an operator in New York and then hooked up to a local operator in whatever city was being called. It sometimes took up to 20 minutes before the person being called was available to speak; if they were out, you had to start over again another time. I doubt that the already good mail service has improved; by contrast, direct long-distance dialing from Turkey is now no more complicated than it is here.
 
The faster tempo of life is also the result of Turkey’s enormous population growth. In 1950 Turkey’s population was 20 million; today it is close to 70 million. This rapidly growing population is relatively youthful, with  three quarters of the population under 40 years of age. Even more dramatic is the growth of major and not-so-major cities. Much of this growth occurs because of people’s quest to improve their lives and those of their children. Most people think the surest and easiest path is to migrate from their villages to the more abundant opportunities in the city. The result: cities and towns now teem with people. This continuing migration creates serious problems: the supply of workers exceeds demand and unemployment rises; housing is in short supply; cheap high-rise apartments dot the outskirts of cities, new ghettos of immigrants are cropping up everywhere. Meanwhile, public services are in short supply. For example, school attendance has risen rapidly but currently only a quarter of the students applying for and admitted to college can enroll; facilities are completely inadequate to handle them. The conclusion: Turkish cities face terribly challenging problems.
 
The increased tempo of life observed in my old habitat of Konya reflects these same forces. Konya’s population rose from  60,000 in 1950 to almost 700,000 in 2002. Konya is no longer the small city it once was, with its skyline dominated by mosques and minarets. Now, large, multi-story buildings (up to a dozen stories) can be seen throughout the city. Commercial activity thrives everywhere. The main thoroughfares have been straightened and widened to accommodate cars, buses, and trucks. Traffic is dense, with vehicles, cyclists, and a few donkey-drawn wagons vying for space. The sidewalks are packed with people. The smells of cooking food are everywhere. The city looks far more attractive than it ever did before, with its tree-lined boulevards and generous floral displays. Modernization has arrived!
 
The guide books portray Konya as among the most religiously conservative areas in Turkey. Women are described as much more likely to keep themselves covered with head scarves and long coats. Yet, I saw perhaps no more than 15 percent of women dressed this way. Interestingly, I noticed a woman dressed in the traditional garb carrying a large clear plastic bag. What was in it? A brightly-colored plastic tricycle. The old and the new; how incongruous. Relatively few men can be seen now fingering their traditional worry beads as they stroll down the sidewalk. The few that do are my age.  Most people pay little attention to these old practices. By contrast, younger people dress like young people do everywhere. I even saw many young people wearing those now fashionable jeans whose backside and upper legs have been treated to make them look worn, giving them an ugly green cast.  In short, the Konya I knew as a backward, mid-sized town has been transformed into a modern, thriving metropolis.
 
Rather than visiting the Mevlana Museum and Mosque (home of the whirling dervishes) during our brief visit to Konya, I decided to search for the Turing Palas Oteli where I lived in 1953. I walked down Alaaddin Caddessi (the main street) to Alaaddin Hill which is the site of the 1221 A.D. mosque built by Alaaddin (he ruled the Seljuk empire from 1219 to 1231). The hotel opposite is gone. Unless my bearings were completely off, the hotel, the coffee house next door, and adjacent stores have been replaced by several nondescript buildings. I walked around the block and spotted the school where I taught English and the adjacent playground where we sometimes played softball.  The absence of the hotel, though disappointing, was not that surprising. With the passage of 50 years, change is inevitable.
 
While checking my guidebook and an old map to be sure I was in the right place, a middle-aged man approached me and asked in quite understandable English whether I needed some help. I explained my search. He assured me the hotel had been demolished some time ago. I remarked about the vast changes in Konya, saying that my old photo album portrayed a quite different city—the streets were filled with people walking rather than driving; the buildings on Alaaddin Hill, then clearly visible from throughout the city, are now completely obscured by surrounding trees. On hearing these comments, he perked up, expressing an interest in seeing my pictures. He went on to describe himself as a high school teacher who writes local history. He wondered whether I might send him copies of these old photos. An intriguing thought crossed my mind; my photos may be the world’s only photos of Konya in the early 1950s! I assured the man I would send him copies rather than allowing the originals to languish in my photo album, as they have for a half century. Better to make copies for somebody who might find a use for them than allow them to deteriorate in my attic. I will be curious to find out what he does with these photos. After exchanging addresses, I rushed back for a quick look at the Mevlana Museum and Mosque before we departed for Cappadocia. If only there had been more time for me to renew my acquaintance with Konya. Perhaps another time.
 
My return visit to Ankara produced a similar impression—growth and modernization. Among the more obvious changes: Ankara’s population increased from perhaps a quarter million in 1950 to between 3-4 million today. Street and pedestrian traffic is heavy; the city and its environs contain a wide array of large new multi-story buildings similar to those in all but this country’s largest cities.  Kizilay Square has displayed Ulus as the center of city life. Embassy row has been thoroughly redone.  Again, I searched for the hotel where I stayed during my frequent visits to Ankara. But, the two-story Guley Palas Oteli also seems to have disappeared, a result of pressures to make the best use of valuable land. To think that 50 years ago we simply drove up to the hotel and parked on the street in front; now the press of people and traffic would make that impossible. Ataturk’s tomb which used to be outside the city is now surrounded  by Ankara’s new suburbs.  Istanbul’s has also grown, with its population increasing from roughly 1 million in 1950 to as much as 10-14 million now. To sum up, Turkey has changed and its tempo of life has clearly accelerated.
 
Our visit to the small town of Tire, north of Seljuk, reminded me most of the Turkey I knew 50 years ago– Iskenderun and Konya as well as nearby towns with military establishments. Tire is well described in the guide books as a typical Turkish village unchanged by modernization. The narrow streets teem with activity—pedestrians, men pushing or pulling large two-wheel carts loaded with materials, other shepherding heavily-laden donkeys, and an occasional donkey-drawn four-wheel wagon. The shops are narrow, small, and poorly lit. Proprietors perch outside on stools or brightly-covered plastic crates of the kind you buy here in Walmart stores. In other shops people work industriously—here making felt, in a shop across the street stitching together garments, and next door weaving carpets. In the windows of a cubbyhole-sized bakery with its glorious aroma are stacks of freshly baked bread. All the while young men scurry about, darting into shops with their trays, delivering chi (tea) in traditional small glasses, with the required two sugar cubes and a tiny teaspoon on the accompanying saucer. As I wandered about, the sights, sounds, and smells frequently evoked those sharp but fleeting memories of the past.
 
The second change noted by Woolf is political. He makes much of Sri Lanka’s independence even though the Tamils had already begun their efforts to break away. By contrast, Turkey was already independent; the surprise is how and why Turkish politics evolved as it did. What happened? Turkey gained its independence in 1923. But, its political system did not come alive until the early 1950s when the ruling party was defeated and Adnan Menderes became prime minister. The Turks were proud of this development and outsiders watched with interest as Turkish democracy took hold. By the late 1950s, however, the political system’s weaknesses began to emerge. In 1960 Menderes was thrown out of office and later hanged for his crimes; I remember having seen him at close hand in Konya during a military review. What has evolved is a political system difficult for outsiders—and perhaps Turks also—to understand. For example, more than 50 different political parties exist, occupying a spectrum ranging from far left to far right, with every shade between, plus pro-Islamist parties. Because no one of these parties is  strong enough to gain a majority, or even a substantial plurality, the result has been a succession of coalition governments maintained by fragile alliances among the several leading parties.
 
During our visit, the upcoming November election campaign had already attracted great attention. We heard a couple of sound trucks here and there but did not directly witness the campaign. Yet, we were keenly aware of it from reading the foreign newspapers and particularly the English-language Daily Turkish Journal. What did we learn? Charges of widespread corruption–ongoing. Controversy over whether the former mayor of Istanbul Erdogan could be appointed prime minister if his party gained a majority in Parliament—the court ruled him ineligible. What the election will mean for Turkey’s quest for EU membership remains unclear.
 
Trying to make sense of Turkish politics has always been difficult, no matter how much one reads in The New York Times,  The Economist, or European papers. New York Times correspondent Steven Kinzer’s recent book, The Crescent and the Star (2001) throws some light on Turkey’s fractionated political system, the military’s attempt to preserve the secular state as Islamist forces grow stronger, the challenge of dealing with the Kurdish population, and the hurdles in gaining membership to the EU. While his book provides interesting background, one must be a diligent student of Turkey’s political system to make sense of it. For the rest of us, the best descriptive term is “baffling.”
 
 
The third change in Sri Lanka Woolf commented on was economic, the rise in its standard of living. Of course, Turkey’s standard of living has risen but far less than might have been expected. Attempting to understand the evolution of Turkeys’ economy and its current economic problems is another challenge. At our initial meeting in Istanbul, an Elderhostel official who studied economics at the university said there would be no exploration of Turkey’s economic problems because these problems are too complex and difficult to understand. He was right. But, his warning did not discourage people from raising questions in the following days. Their questions were often addressed to me, on the assumption I understood the situation. Before leaving Madison I had tried to bone up on the Turkish economy but doing so was difficult. Kinzer’s book says almost nothing about the economy. The most recent survey of Turkey in The Economist is more than a year old and devoted largely to politics and Turkey’s quest for entry into the European Union. The 2001 OECD report on Turkey is rather technical, devotes considerable space to fiscal and financial matters, and then describes Turkey’s wide-ranging structural reform program. Feeling myself unprepared, I desperately hoped we would hear a lecture or two on Turkey’s economic problems.  But, that was not to be.
 
What kinds of questions did people ask? As we drove through cities, towns, and the countryside, the most obvious questions dealt with real estate: Why are there so many unfinished residential buildings everywhere we go? Why do some buildings have a completed first floor but unfinished second and/or third floors? How do builders finance large development projects involving dozens and dozens of condos? How can people live and operate in an economy where prices rise so rapidly, where in the past several years annual inflation rates have ranged between 60-70%? Many of my traveling friends had some inkling of the impact of inflation. Put simply, under conditions of rapid inflation it does not pay to hold cash or other financial assets. The only way to protect yourself is as quickly as possible convert your cash into real assets (land, buildings, etc.).
 
What about inflation? How bad is it? What caused it? The presence of inflation became clear enough when people converted their US dollars into Turkish Lira, and was reinforced as people tried to keep track of those pesky zeros on the paper currency: “Let me see, is this a 500,000 TL or 5,000,000 TL note?” The first figure represents about 30 cents, the second about $3.00. At this point, I could offer some perspective, explaining that during my earlier stay in Turkey, the current exchange rate was 2.8 TL to one U.S. dollar.  What a contrast!    But then came more difficult questions. What accounts for the high inflation rate? Why are interest rates so high? Exactly how prosperous are people living in Turkey?
 
Being frustrated by my inability to respond meaningfully to many such questions, I visited Istanbul Technical University during the final two days in Istanbul, hoping to hook up with an economist who could help answer these and other questions. There I met a Turkish economist, Professor Oner Guncavdi, who had been educated at  Warwick University in England and who fortunately specialized in international trade. We spent more than an hour talking about the issues, and he kindly provided me with two recent research papers analyzing Turkey’s economic problems. These studies indicate that Turkey in the early 1980s embarked on a bold experiment, liberalizing commodity and financial markets, and at the same time reducing administrative and regulatory statutes hindering the international flow of capital. The intent was to stimulate economic growth, bring down the inflation rate, reduce government deficits, and improve the condition of the poor. The reality was quite different: slow growth, high inflation, continued high deficits, a decline in real wages, and an erosion of moral values because of pervasive corruption. Not a pretty picture.
 
What these analyses reveal is the difficulty of freeing up a statist economy (one with many government owned and controlled companies) so that market forces can work and in the process squeeze out inefficiencies and eliminate rampant corruption. Achieving success requires making unpopular changes and sticking to them—toughness is essential. The difficulties should not be underestimated. As one example, Turkey continues to operate many state industries that by their very nature are inefficient and require generous subsidies to keep them afloat. Despite efforts at privatization, much remains to be done in transferring these industries to private sector entrepreneurs who will have to face the discipline of the marketplace. Continuing to subsidize these industries inflates government expenditures, leading to larger budget deficits because tax revenues fall short of government expenditures. To finance these deficits, government must borrow from the public; doing so requires paying competitive interest rates that may range as high as 70%. Meanwhile, Turkey’s insatiable demand for imports combined with weak export demand creates balance of payments problems that weaken the TL in foreign exchange markets. This in turn undermines the confidence of foreign investors who might be poised to make new and much-needed investments in Turkey. The seriousness of Turkey’s economic problems is dramatized by the fact that its national debt exceeds its current gross domestic product (GDP). Until its national debt can be brought down, Turkey will never be able to meet the criteria required for membership in the EU.
 
Because of Turkey’s key role in the Middle East and its long-standing alliance with the U.S., this country has led efforts by the World Bank and International Monetary Fund to help Turkey stabilize its economy and accelerate its economic growth. Despite these efforts, Turkey’s economic growth lags seriously behind other recent entrants in the EU. In 1950, per capita GDP (gross domestic product) was approximately the same in Turkey, Greece, Spain, and Portugal; the level was probably no greater than a couple of hundred dollars per year. In 2000,  the comparable figures are: Spain $16,000, Portugal $12,000, and Greece $11,000, as compared to only $2500 for Turkey. These figures raise other questions: Why hasn’t Turkey been able to grow itself more rapidly? Does it have the capacity to grow more rapidly in the future? Can it ever catch up?
 
My comments here hardly do justice to the complexity of the Turkish economy and its difficult economic problems. How well it fares in the coming years is now clouded with uncertainty. Much depends on who is elected and how committed the country’s leadership is to improving Turkey’s economic prospects. It must move quickly to  implement the reforms needed to promote faster economic growth, stricter control over inflation, restrained public spending, a reduced role for government, and elimination of corruption. All represent formidable challenges in even the most stable political environment.
 
                                                                        * * *
This concludes “My Turkey: Reminiscence and Reflection,” an essay on my two trips to Turkey. Writing this essay helped me focus on what I learned from my recent Elderhostel trip. Even more gratifying, it awoke old and gratifying memories of my earlier stay in Turkey. How lucky I’ve been, to enjoy two wonderful journeys to a country I love.

The rental car owner was demanding $10,000 to settle the matter. “Calvin” said his friend agreed to pay half, and he, “Calvin,” was to pay the other half, $5000.  He called asking if we could immediately send $5,000 plus an additional $200 to pay for a hotel room and trip home. The $5,200 should be sent to him at Walmart in London Ontario through what is called a “moneygram.” Nana would need to deliver the $5200 to the Walmart moneygram office and would be given a referral number. “Calvin” said he would call back later to get the referral number so that he could pick up the $5,200 at the nearby Walmart store.
 
Nana agreed but said it might take a couple of hours to send the money. She would have to go to the bank and then to a doctor’s appointment. “Calvin” said he would call back at about 2:30 pm.
 
When I arrived home at 2:15 pm,  I found a note Nana had left. It summarized the phone call, adding that she withdrew $5,200 from the bank but left it in the house rather than carrying it to her doctor’s appointment. She hoped I could go with her to Walmart after she returned home. She also said “Calvin” would be calling about 2:30 pm. No call came.
 
Nana arrived home at 3 pm, and told me more about the phone call. I said it was odd that Calvin had not called back. I asked about any injuries to “Calvin” and his friend. Nana had no details. This too struck me as odd. I then began wondering about insurance, whether Calvin’s car insurance would cover the accident. If so, the insurance company could handle the matter. Meanwhile, Nana remembered that Calvin ordinarily referred to her as “Nana,” not “Grandma.” And I wondered what Calvin was doing in Ontario—he should be attending his classes at Bradley University in Illinois.
 
I then phoned our insurance agent. She explained that Calvin’s insurance would cover the accident even if it occurred in Canada. But she suggested I phone Calvin to verify that he made the call and had been in the accident. She mentioned having just read a newspaper story that morning a report on someone who got a similar phone call.
 
I then phoned Calvin to ask about the accident—how he was and whether the car was totaled.  He said, "Grandpa, what are you talking about, I am in a class here at Bradley. I've never been to Canada!" After I told him about the phone call, Calvin said this was one of those scams he had heard about, and that we should not send the money. Yes, this was one of those telephone scams.
 
I phoned the Shorewood police who arrived and took down the information. Before they arrived, the phone rang again with the voice asking for “Grandma.” I said she was not back. When would she return? I said in an hour or so. While we were explaining the story to one police officer, the other was checking with the sheriff’s office. That office had already that day received 20 complaints about similar phone calls.
 
Remembering what our insurance agent said, I checked the morning newspaper and reread the headline, “Man loses nearly $20,000 in scam.” (Wisconsin State Journal, September 9, 2008). It described how an elderly local man had gotten a similar phone call about a car accident involving his grandson in Canada. He responded by forwarding the $20,000. Of course, he now realized he was duped.
 
What explains Nana’s response? In retrospect, she reacted as any grandmother would after receiving “Calvin’s” phone call. Even though she tried to get more details, the caller deflected them by emphasizing the need for quick action. Fortunately, Nana's doctor appointment slowed down the process of responding to the phone call. And by chance I happened to arrive home before Sally drove to Walmart to send off the money. What luck!
 
Love, Grandpa Hansen

For some students this was easy. Joan Sweetman had no difficulty getting up and singing, Ruth Radawan loved to demonstrate her tap dancing skills attired in her skimpy little tap dancing dress. Alex Spiroff enjoyed playing his favorite song, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” on his accordian. The always beautiful Betty Brown played for us the music she learned at her most recent weekly piano lesson.

Those of us with no or lesser talent faced difficulty deciding what to do. Herb Marks always found something he could say about new weapons of war, such as flamethrowers or anti-tank mines. John Eifert regularly talked about some famous baseball player.

I was regularly saved by a book called CURIOUS FACTS that contained dozens of interesting factoids I could read to my amazed classmates. They were especially impressed with the long sentences I found in which the first letter of every word began with the letter “W.” Here is one such item:  “Warm weather Walter. Welcome warm weather. We were wishing warm weather weren’t we? We were well wearied with waiting, whispered Walter wearily.”  And so the “W” words continued onward. Tough to duplicate; try doing so!.

Though the times were bad, they were good for school kids like us.  Ms. Strand regularly challenged us to keep abreast of world affairs, the rise of Hitler and Mussolini, the fall of France and the Low countries in spring 1940, the two 1939 World Fairs going on in New York and San Francisco, a classmate’s account of an auto trip to the New York Fair on the newly opened Pennsylvania Turnpike, and so on. On two large tables we had constructed three-dimensional mockups of the World Fair buildings, including the Pylon and Perisphere.

Meanwhile, the scope of World War II expanded and the blackout imposed on London extended its reach to the large cities on our East Coast. Throughout the war years, the sentiments expressed in the song “When the Lights Go On Again . . ” helped carry us through to victory.

Will there be similar song to help carry us through our current pandemic? Let’s hope so.

Names of 6th grade classmates at Jefferson Elementary School;
Teacher: Ms. Strang
Joan Sweetman
Ruth Radewan
Alex Spiroff
Herb Marks
Betty Brown,
Jack Ifert
Lorraine Graham,
Beverly Schleds,
Joan Hurst,
Roberts Glidden
Bill Johnson,
 Eddie Poplowski
June Rogers
Joan McCullough
Mary Jane Stemple
Dick Hayes
Eugene Rexilius
Bill Graves
Jack Hansen
Dick Warner
Ralph Henkes
Marily Heilbering
Marilyn Glade
Lillisn Hanson
Jackie Harmes
Roberta Hurley
Dick Ganzel
Ralph Nuebauer
Dick Bassingdale
Stephen Cole
Frank Ittner
Lee Hansen
31 total, six rows of sears, five seats per row = 30

I am so glad I made the decision to revisit what I will continue to call Camp McCoy.  My visit brought back a flood of memories of my six-month stay there from mid-January 1951 through early July 1951, where I received my six weeks of basic training followed by eight weeks of advanced training while serving in an artillery unit. But I also learned about the transformation of Camp McCoy to Fort McCoy; the name change occurred in 1974 when it became a permanent military installation. McCoy had a long history, being established in 1909 and used extensively in World War I, World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.  The camp was deactivated shortly after the end of World War II in 1945. The camp was reactivated during the Korean War and again in the Gulf War.  In the interim, the camp hosted a State Patrol police training center, served as a Job Corps training center in the 1970s, housed a considerable number of Cuban refugees in the early 1980s, and in recent years provided a place where Army Reserve and National Guard units came for their summer training.

Camp McCoy is located in a large saucer-like area, surrounded by a ring of low-lying hills, about halfway between Sparta and Tomah in central Wisconsin. The installation is located in the flat central area and has a triangular shape. The longest part of the triangle runs parallel to the east-west highway that parallels the camp. The other two sides angle together and meet at what might be viewed as the back end of the camp. The headquarters is located in the middle of the triangle surrounded by open space for parades and other military activities. All of the service facilities such as warehouses, repair facilities, the PX, and the like are located at the front of the camp near the railroad tracks and highway.

I had no trouble getting into the camp. All I had to do was show my identification and sign the visitor book.  I was provided with a detailed map to help me find my way around the vast installation with its many different facilities and service areas. I quickly noticed that the map did not show the artillery ranges in the network of roads out in the hills surrounding the 60,000 acre installation.

I had no idea what to expect. After all, more than 65 years had elapsed since I arrived at Camp McCoy in mid-January 1951. To my surprise, I had no difficulty gaining entrance to Fort McCoy. After parking my car outside the front entrance, I was directed to the visitor’s center. After showing my driver’s license and signing a Visitor’s book, I was given a detailed map along with a pass that allowed me to traverse the entire site with the exception of the firing ranges. As I drove about, the signage made it easy to keep track of where I was. 

The first thing I did was head for the barracks building where I lived from January 1951 until July 1951. I had no difficulty finding it, remembering its location adjacent to a small stream that separated our barracks from another group of barracks. Soon, I spotted my old barracks building as well as the other two barracks used by our unit. The battery office across the street housed the office of the battery commander and the First Sergeant; oddly, I remember their names, 1st Lt. Laurita and Sgt. Heaney, both World War II veterans. Behind it was a classroom building and next door was the mess hall. A bit further off the main road was the 187th Group Headquarters building, and even further back was the Bachelor Officer Quarters where single officers lived. Married officers faced much more difficulty finding housing in the small nearby towns of Tomah and Sparta.

Though the buildings look very much as they did years ago, they have all been upgraded. The asbestos shingles on the outside walls have been replaced with insulation covered by metallic siding, new roofing and gutters are in evidence, concrete foundations have replaced the open crawl spaces, and the old coal-burning furnace rooms attached to each building are gone. The modernization process continues but appears to be nearing completion. In short, the facilities appear to be in excellent shape.

When I arrived, the barracks building for our small group of Wisconsin draftees had probably been unoccupied since the end of World War II. We were moved into the second floor of the building, probably on the theory we would be warmer there than on the vacant first floor. Although the building was reasonably clean, we were challenged to get it sparkling clean and ready for the coming Saturday morning inspection. Being new and wanting to pass inspection, we went to work Friday night, cleaning the windows, scrubbing the floors, and getting the latrine clean and shipshape. What we did is what the National Guard members and the Michigan draftees had to do their barracks building when they arrived several months earlier.

What Most Impressed Me

In driving about I came upon a large outdoor display of the great variety of vehicles and armor that has been used and is currently used in military training. I was able to closely inspect everything from the familiar jeeps to 6x6 trucks, service vehicles of one kind or another, armored vehicles including tanks and troop carriers, and finally an array of artillery weapons, everything from the ancient 75 mm cannon from World War I, to the heavily used 105 mm howitzers used in World War II, and to the next generation of self-propelled and towed 155 mm guns, plus the 8-inch howitzers.

I also learned about the unique role of Fort McCoy in the training of Reserve and National Guard units. It is one of the few installations that can provide both summer and winter training environments. To be effective in doing so, it stocks the largest array of military equipment in the country. So, rather than having training units incur the costs of transporting  their equipment to Fort McCoy, the base “loans” out its vast store of equipment to visiting training units. Evidence of this approach to training is quite apparent. One sees large parking lots of jeeps and trucks of various kinds as well as armored vehicles. I failed to see any heavy artillery; I suspect it is kept in the many large sheds found scattered  throughout the installation.

I also came upon an NCO school (a noncommissioned officer’s school for sergeants)) that the Army found necessary to establish to manage the training and discipline required in a modern army. I would have liked to have gone into the school but decided not to do so.

I also learned a few interesting facts about Camp  McCoy in World War II. At times it housed as many as 35,000 soldiers being trained for overseas deployment. But, it also housed some of the Japanese Americans who were interned during the war. And most surprising, it held a number of German but only a few Japanese prisoners of war, one of whom had been captured during the attack on Pearl Harbor.  More history of the Camp McCoy was available in a tabloid newspaper handout. Back in 1951 we had no inkling of the history and importance of this military base.

One of the most interesting sights came when I visited the spacious PX located in the central area of the base. I was completely unprepared for the presence of female troops and the mixing of male and female soldiers.  What a difference from early 1951. Back then, I don’t recall seeing any WACs (Women Army Corps personnel) at Camp McCoy. There was probably no need for them to be there to participate in the training of combat units, particularly artillery units. Both male and female soldiers now wear similar uniforms, the new camouflage light green clothing and for women trousers similar to those worn by men. I also noticed that everyone was dressed in fatigues, daytime attire I would suppose. The new mix of troops was also apparent when I noticed that the PX featured items that would be of interest only to female soldiers, including cosmetics, women’s clothing, and the like.

Unlike the camp’s enormous amount of activity back in 1951, there was not a whole lot of activity underway. I suspect that as summer approaches, more and more reserve and National Guard units are at the camp for their summer training. But I was struck by the contrast. No troops marching along the main roads, no long convoys taking troops and their weapons off to the artillery ranges, few if any trucks delivering foods to the mess halls, etc. I could not find out how many troops were at McCoy that month but it certainly paled in comparison with the tens of thousands to troop being trained there in early 1951 when we were engaged in a massive building up of the army to fight an unanticipated war in Korea.

Camp McCoy Memories

This visit brought back many memories of my time at Camp McCoy. One was the beauty of the setting. Most of my fellow soldiers were more focused on their back-home wives and girlfriends , all the while voicing the typical complaints about a soldier’s life. Being completely unattached, I could enjoy the place and the invigorating life we were leading.

I greatly enjoyed the physical training we experienced as well as the long 10 and 20 mile marches we did to toughen us up. Usually, we carried our full packs and carbines with us. These hikes took us off into the surrounding woods and the numerous small streams that flowed through the camp area. As the weather got warmer, we often went on field exercises which meant moving the entire battery off into a wooded area where we camped for several days as if we were readying ourselves to confront a not too distant enemy force.  This was another important part of our training.

I must say I enjoyed our training, both the inside training on a wide variety of topics and the more invigorating outside training. Our group of draftees was trained by a senior sergeant named Steen.  He did an excellent job of training us for those fourteen weeks. Moreover, he was kind, low-keyed fellow who treated us with respect and with no signs of favoritism.

I have several distinct memories. One was the cold weather we experienced in our first two weeks at Camp McCoy.  A cold wave swept into Wisconsin and particularly the state’s mid-section that included Camp McCoy.  One night the temperature dropped to -53 degrees; for an entire week we trained indoors because the temperature never rose above -20 degrees. For more details, see my essay “Drafted into the Korean War January 11, 1954.”

As winter waned, we experienced the beauty of the surrounding countryside during our frequent ten to twenty mile conditioning hikes, overnight field operations, and periodic assignments to direct and observe from secure concrete bunkers the accuracy of fire from our artillery battalions. The area was beautiful in the spring when melting snow filled the small streams, the wild flowers bloomed, and migrating birds passed through the area. By this time we were all in good physical conditions after a daily regime of calisthenics, including situps, pushups, and pullups, along with brisk walking and running exercises, plus those 20 mile marches. The food was ample and quite good.

One of the saddest days came when several officers and a number of the National Guard enlisted me were sent off to Korea. The rest of us all felt lucky we were not being sent along with them. All I knew about them came from a chance meeting in a New York bar a year later when I ran into two senior sergeants who returned unscathed and were happy to be back with their families and friends. When these guys left, I remember somebody telling me that if my orders for Korea came up, I should be sure to mention my typing skills, something that almost certainly would keep me out of combat.

One by-product of their leaving was my appointment as the battery’s TI&E (Troop Information and Education) specialist, replacing a sergeant who was shipped out to Korea. I think I was moved up to this position, in part because I was one of the relatively few college graduates and was known to have majored in economics and international relations. I don’t recall much about my duties except to remember speaking to my fellow soldiers while out on a field exercise. The subject of that talk: Why we were fighting in Korea, illustrated with a fairly large map of Korea pinned onto a nearby tree, with the birds singing in the background. I wish I had a picture. We all had to take our turn at KP, night guard duty, helping to "police" the outside area around our barracks every morning, and so on. Not glamorous stuff but interesting nonetheless.

Among the most memorable days at Camp McCoy was the celebration of Armed Forces Day, May 16, 1951. Thousands of us soldiers and our officers were assembled by 8 a.m, augmented by dozens of trucks, tanks, and artillery, on a large dusty field to the west of our barracks in preparation for an inspection and review by the Commanding General from Fifth Army Headquarters in Chicago. It was an extremely hot day, the field where we assembled was dry, and when we marched to our place in the parade line-up, we were enveloped in a vast cloud of dust. When the parade began, even more dust was generated. We were all perspiring when the review began, even more so as we marched. While passing the reviewing stand, we were issued an "eyes right" command. More than a few guys passed out before the parade began and others collapsed during the review. Medics and ambulances followed to deal with these fellows.

Perhaps the most electrifying moment occurred when President Truman announced the surprising dismissal of General Macarthur from command of the fighting force in Korea.  What to make of that action was difficult for us to comprehend until the details of Macarthur’s behavior were revealed.       
 
That sums up a report on my 65 years later return visit to Camp McCoy. More details can be found in my essay, “Drafted for the Korean War January 11, 1951: My reflections.”

After I completed my tour of Ft. McCoy, I drove over to Sparta to see what the town looked like; actually, it looked rather prosperous. The same was true of Tomah, the location of a large VA Hospital. Then, I headed back to Madison, glad I decided to visit my old Camp McCoy and full of pleasant memories about the six months I spent there.

What most impressed was the enthusiasm and vigor of the singing. As far as I could tell, there was no mouthing of the words or the half-hearted singing that would occur in a similar ceremony at Madison. Everyone sang with great gusto, as if they meant every word they sang. Most of the people attending seemed to know each other. Roughly a quarter of the Island’s permanent residents, plus a few visitors like me and my son-in-law Harvey Dunham, came together for this year’s annual event.
​
A highlight of the program was the award-winning Americanism Essays, read by three Washington Island school students. The subject was: “Should the Confederate Monuments Be Removed in American Cities?” The essays were thoughtful, well-written, and delivered in voices that could be easily heard throughout the church. Each essayist was presented with an Americanism Medal awarded annually by the American Legion Post.

Last year a special tribute, was paid to the Island members of the Merchant Marine whose lives were lost during World War II while manning the freighters that carried food and military equipment to England and to Murmansk Russia. This year marked the 100th anniversary of the American Legion; as well as establishment of Post 402 back in the mid-1930s.

Because of a light rain, this year’s Service had to be cut short. Instead of marching to the Island cemetery 400 yards down the road, and after that another 200 yards to the Schoolhouse Beach, we remained in the church to hear the names of the more than 220 Washington Islanders who served in America’s wars plus the names of the 14 Merchant Mariners lost in World War II. This was followed by a prayer, a moving recitation of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address by the church minister, a salute by the Color Guard and the Rifle Squad outside the church, the playing of “Taps,” and the bagpiper’s rendition of “Amazing Grace.”  

What an impressive but sad event it was, commemorating a day whose meaning is lost to so many Americans. Most of the people attending the Service were regular Island residents, augmented by a few visitors like me (U.S. Army 1951-53) and my son-in-law Harvey Dunham (U.S. Coast Guard, 1974-78).
 
Memorial Day Observance: Washington Island, May 31, 2018 (prior year essay)
Reading in the Washington Island newspaper, the Observer, about the local Memorial Day Observance while visiting one of my daughters on Washington Island, I asked my son-in-law if he would be interested in attending this event with me. He said yes, and off we went to the northern part of the Island where the event is held, at the Bethel Church.

A crowd had already gathered outside the church. Inside the church was already half filled; soon it was completely filled, with additional chairs set up in the back, other people standing at the back, and still others in the good-sized entrance. By this time the crown numbered about 150, including those who remained outside.Promptly at 10:30 am the service began, by the Commander of the American Legion Pose 402. After a brief introduction and the Pledge of Allegiance, we all sang the Star spangled Banner, and a bit later in the program, America, America the Beautiful, and God Bless America.

What most impressed was the vigor of the singing. None of this mouthing of the words or the weak singing that would occur in a similar ceremony at Madison. Everyone sang with great gusto and enthusiasm, as if they meant every word they sang.

The program featured the reading of the awarded-winning Americanism Essays, read by three Washington Island school Students. The subject was how best to deal with America’s crime problems. The essay were provocative and delivered in voices that could be easily heard throughout the church. Each of three essayists was presented with an Americanism Medal awarded by the American Legion Post.
A special, moving tribute was paid to the 14 Island member of the Merchant Mariner whose lives were lost during World War II. Many had worked in the Great Lakes shipping industry prior to World War II. The Merchant Marine suffered severe casualties as a result of German U-Boat sinking these ships AS THY carried food and military equipment to both England and Murmansk Russia.

Following the service, members of the American Legion post led the march to the cemetery two hundred yards away where the names of deceased servicemen from World War I, World War II, Korea, and Vietnam were read. Three bronze plaques list the names of the men and women who served in our country’s wars are located in the Island Square near the church. Following the reading of the names of the local men and women who service, there was a prayer, followed by a salute by the Color Guard and the Rifle Squad, the playing of Taps, and the bagpipers’ rendition of Amazing Grace.

The assembled crowd then marched another 200 years to the Schoolhouse Beach where a wreath was  placed for Comrades who died at Sea. This was followed by another Salute from the Color Guard and the Rifle Squad, the paying of Taps once again, and the bagpipers playing Amazing Grace.

The morning’s event were impressive.

On Becoming a Newspaper Boy
 
As a youngster, I had long wondered what could be more exciting than becoming a newspaper boy. To qualify, you had to be at least 14 years old. If under 16, you were required to have a state-issued work permit. Above all, you had to be a responsible person, one who could do the job and do it well. It was obvious that the RJT circulation manager was selective in hiring teenage boys to deliver their papers. Several of my friends who desperately wanted carrier jobs applied regularly but were never hired. Knowing their habits, I understood why.
 
I applied for a job shortly after my 14th birthday. In early 1943, a nearby route opened up. To my delight, I was chosen to fill it. Several months later, the route that included our street became available, and I was able to transfer to it.
 
I don’t recall any special orientation for newly hired carrier boys. I suspect that Harry Rarick, the RJT Circulation Manager, gave me detailed instructions and valuable advice when he signed me on. The topics he covered undoubtedly included such matters as delivering the afternoon papers as soon as possible after picking them up, keeping accurate records of the names and addresses of subscribers, recording the weekly payments received from subscribers, and every Friday afternoon going downtown to the newspaper office to turn in the newspaper’s share of the subscription price. When our meeting ended, I received an account book to keep my subscriber records, as well as a bright new orange newspaper bag stamped with big bold black letters: THE RACINE JOURNAL-TIMES.
 
New carriers learned the ropes by spending a day, perhaps several days, shadowing their predecessors. That is when you found out exactly where people expected to find their delivered newspapers. You picked up important information about your customers, such as their generosity or lack thereof, their propensity to complain, and their procrastination in paying you each week. If the retiring carrier hadn’t already taken another job, you accompanied him on his collection rounds and were introduced to your new customers.
 
Being a paperboy was a highly desirable job. It provided spending money to teens in an age long before parents thought much about weekly allowances. That was certainly the case with my parents, who seemed to have never heard of allowances. Once you became a paperboy, you no longer had to search out odd jobs mowing lawns, shoveling snow, or weeding people’s gardens to bring in a dime or sometimes a quarter. Vivid memories of the Great Depression caused people to watch their finances carefully. 
 
As a paperboy, you quickly learned many skills that proved to be of great value later on. Most parents impressed on their sons—mine certainly did—what kind of behavior was expected of paperboys: being courteous to your customers, being conscientious about collecting money from your customers, keeping accurate records, signing up new residents as customers after previous residents moved away, being persistent with customers past due in their payments; and most difficult of all, making it clear to them that nonpayment for more than two weeks would cancel their subscription.
                                               
We paperboys took great pride in our bright orange RJT newspaper bags. The mark of real distinction, however, was the arrival of the coin dispenser you ordered from the newspaper. These shiny silver plated gadgets, which you snapped on over your belt, had four cylindrical tubes to accommodate pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. As you collected money from your customers, you inserted the coins you received into their appropriate slots. To give change, you simply pressed the appropriate dispenser lever as many times as needed. .
 
The day’s work began when our group of a half-dozen paperboys gathered about 4 p.m. at our newspaper drop-stop in front of Jefferson Elementary School on West Sixth Street. When the speeding, orange-colored RJT delivery truck reached us, it came to a quick stop. The fellow in the passenger seat hopped out, opened the back door of the panel truck, and tossed our route-number-labeled newspaper bundles onto the sidewalk. He jumped back into the truck, and it sped off to the next stop. We picked up our bundles of newspapers, untied the bundles, counted the papers, and stuffed them into our newspaper bags.
 
We then headed off to our delivery routes, rolling our newspapers tightly so we could throw them accurately onto people’s front porches.. The process is even more complicated to describe than tying a necktie. You began by taking out of your bag an already folded newspaper. Next, you . . .  Suffice it to say, the point was to create a compact missile that could be easily and accurately thrown.
 
The next challenge was to lob the rolled newspaper to a targeted spot on each customer’s doorstep. For people who lived in upstairs flats–and there were many of them, papers had to be placed inside entrance doors on the front, side, or back of the house. Rainy days required special care to ensure that the delivered papers would stay dry. Cold snowy days posed a different problem: keeping your hands warm enough to fold the papers and wearing loose enough clothing so you could throw the papers accurately. Delivering my 80-90 newspapers usually took about a half-hour in the summer and 45 minutes to an hour in winter.
 
While waiting for the delivery truck to arrive, we always found ways to amuse ourselves. We talked about all kinds of things, horsed around with each other, played marbles on the school ground, organized friendly snowball “fights,” and engaged in typical teenage bragging about all kinds of preposterous activities and accomplishments. None of us knew enough about sex to make that a viable topic of conversation.
 
One special joy I remember could occur only in Racine. On Friday afternoons the delivery truck usually arrived late, sometimes after 4:30 pm, perhaps because the printing was delayed long enough to include the week’s stock quotations. By then we had already completed most of our subscriber collections for the week. I think we received five cents of the 25 cent weekly subscription price. Feeling prosperous and deserving of a special treat, we would saunter across West Sixth Street to Jensen’s Bakery. Typically, each of us would buy a small date-filled kringle, a delicious Danish pastry. We then headed back across the street to the school steps where we hung out, consuming our kringles in a matter of minutes. I think we paid 10 cents for a 12 ounce half kringle; a full-sized kringle cost 20 cents but that was more than any of us could eat at one sitting. How delicious those kringles were! Despite the amount of sugar we ingested, it was burned it off quickly as we made our delivery rounds.
 
The high point of the year for every paperboy came on Christmas Day. The RJT provided us with calendars, one for each subscriber. We were to distribute them to our customers as a way of thanking them. More importantly, it was an opportunity for them to thank us with something more valuable than words—namely “cash.” I recall going from door to door, knocking, and when the door opened, politely wishing the customer a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. While doing so, I pulled a calendar out of my delivery bag and handed it to the customer. People knew the routine, which played out something like this: “Oh, come in, it’s so cold out there. Oh, thanks so much for the calendar. Wait here just a moment.” They soon returned and pressed some coins into your hand.
 
You thanked them, but didn’t dare look to see how much they gave you; that would have seemed crass. But once you were out of the house and heading down the sidewalk, you took a quick glance at the coins. It was rare for subscribers to give you nothing at all. It was equally rare for them to give you a dollar bill. Most commonly, you received some coins, ranging from as little as a nickel or a dime to as much as a half-dollar. When you got home, you eagerly counted your “take.” I remember receiving $20.00 in Christmas tips that first year, an average of about 25 cents per subscriber or the equivalent of the weekly subscription price. For a 14 year-old in 1943 this was a real bonanza.
 
I kept my carrier job for more than two years, giving it up at the end of my junior year in high school. I could not continue because as a senior and the incoming editor of the Washington Park High School newspaper, The Park Beacon, I would have to be on duty in the school newspaper office every afternoon. Even more pressing, I would be away at Northwestern University for five weeks enrolled in a summer journalism institute for incoming high school newspaper and yearbook editors.
 
Both of my younger brothers followed in my footsteps as paperboys. Younger boys often began by delivering Sunday editions of the Milwaukee and Chicago papers because the RJT did not publish on Sunday. My younger brother Forest started at age 12 with a route of more than 100 Sunday Milwaukee Journal customers that covered a far larger area than my route. Not having a bike, he delivered his papers pulling them in our wagon! (How it was that he could work at such an early age remains a mystery.) Later he took on a daily morning Milwaukee Sentinel route, and still later he acquired my old route. My youngest brother Harlan later inherited that same route. So, at one time or another we all delivered papers on the West Sixth Street-Park View route. For years afterwards, we loved to discuss our “paperboy” days, about the scandalous behavior of some of our customers, what happened to such and such a family, and who were the worst customers about paying their newspaper bills.
           
D-Day June 6, 1944
 
The RJT delivery truck dropped off our newspapers bundles as usual on an early April Monday afternoon in 1944. To our surprise, we found that each bundle included a notice from Harry Rarick, the circulation manager, commanding us to meet at 6:30 p.m. that Friday night in the downtown newspaper office. Packing our papers into our newspaper bags there on the steps of Jefferson Elementary School, we puzzled about the likely reason for the meeting. Nobody had the slightest clue, nor could anybody recall any similar meeting in the past.
 
Friday night arrived. We trekked to the downtown newspaper office. One by one we turned over the money we had collected for the newspapers we received that week. The money was collected by the intimidating, red-faced, chain-smoking Hank Larson, who was the stereotypical newspaper guy we all knew from the movies. After that, the hundred of us paperboys squeezed into an adjacent room where Harry Rarick called us to order. We still had no idea what he might say. It went something like this.
 
“We want to alert you to the likelihood of a big news story in the next couple of months. We plan to publish ‘Extra’ editions of the newspaper that day. We will need your help delivering these papers. When the time comes, a phone call will inform you when to report to your newspaper drop-off location to pick up your papers. What you will then do is deliver a paper to each of your customers. As you walk your route, from time to time you should yell “Extra! Extra!” In addition, call out the headline on the Extra, whatever it might be. We hope people will be attracted by your calls and rush for their newspapers to read the news.”
 
That was it. As we were dismissed, Rarick told us not to say anything about what was discussed at the meeting. Most of us followed that instruction, having been indoctrinated in World War II wartime secrecy with cautionary phrases such as “Loose lips sink ships” and “Silence is security.” As if there were German and Japanese spies lurking everywhere listening to us talk while we waited for the RJT delivery truck! I think we all had some inkling the Allied armies would be invading France to create a Second Front, but I don’t think any of us put two and two together.
 
On June 6, 1944, it began. Early that morning, probably about 4:30 a.m., our telephone rang and a voice told me to report immediately to my newspaper pickup spot. I dressed quickly, ate my cereal breakfast of Wheaties, and ran the two blocks to Jefferson School. A couple of my fellow newspaper boys were already there or arrived breathlessly minutes later. We opened our newspaper bundles and saw the headline. Across the top of the front page in bold three-inch high letters was the single word: “EXTRA!” Immediately below in one-inch type was the newspaper’s name –The Racine Journal-Times. Then came the banner headline, again in three-inch high letters, proclaiming “ALLIES LAND IN FRANCE." Below that, in the center four columns, was a photo of infantrymen rushing forward through the surf, rifles held high, with the word “INVASION” superimposed across the top of the photo. The outer two columns on each side of the page carried smaller headlines giving more details.
 
So, the long-awaited, much-discussed Second Front finally opened. What electrifying news after two and one-half years of war! As we loaded our papers into our orange carrier bags, we talked briefly about how to proceed. We all figured we could make our deliveries and still get to school on time that morning. Off we went to make our rounds. When I completed my deliveries, another phone call said another Extra was waiting to be delivered. By noon more Extras had arrived and needed to be delivered. Later that afternoon the regular edition was dropped off for delivery. What a busy day it was.
 
I have no recollection of delivering those additional Extras published later in the morning. Yes, the RJT published a total of FOUR Extras. The second, probably appearing several hours after the first one, bore the headline: “2nd EXTRA” followed by “BIG INVASION LAUNCHED.” Then came the another: “3rd EXTRA” followed by “BEACHHEAD IS SEIZED.” And the final one: “4th EXTRA” followed by “INVADERS SLASH INLAND.” All this before the regular afternoon edition. I quickly noticed that from one Extra to another the only content changes occurred in the front page stories that carried over to the second page. Everything else remained unchanged
 
Were we told there would be extra Extras? I don’t recall. Did we deliver extra  Extras over the course of the morning? I don’t recall. Were the extra Extras sold at city news stands? I don’t know. Did we skip school that morning so we could do our job? I simply don’t remember.
 
With the arrival of the full-sized afternoon edition, and its many background stories, readers learned about the size of the invasion force and the logistics of mounting the invasion. The news was upbeat. What we did not know at the time was how precarious a hold the Allied forces maintained on the French beachheads in those early hours.
 
What caught my eye were several full page advertisements. One played on something that was probably published in 1917 when American troops, including many 32nd Division men from Racine (two of my uncles among them), arrived in France to fight in World War I: The headline in the ad shouted, “Lafayette, we are here,” to which the word “ AGAIN!” had been added. Another full page, in lieu of the usual editorial page offerings, featured an already- famous Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover drawing entitled, “Let Us Pray.” Still another linked the D-Day landing to the importance of supporting the 5th War Loan program then underway. In addition, announcements told readers that prayer services were being held at local churches, and that President Roosevelt would address the nation that evening, offering prayers for the success of the invasion.
 
The afternoon edition carried a particularly interesting story: “Journal-Times Gives Readers Special Service On Invasion.” It described how the newspaper staff got set for its D-Day coverage and the Extra editions it produced. For the previous month or more its editorial staff had worked to prepare background stories on the invasion. The fires had been kept lit so the molten lead in the linotype machine would be ready on short notice to set type for the Extras. In addition, its 106 paperboys, described as “carrier salesmen,” had been alerted by the Circulation Department to be at their posts by 5 a.m. to begin delivering the Extras. It also mentioned that additional Extras followed in rapid succession as war correspondents reported in. These stories was accompanied by a photo showing a local man purchasing the first Extra early that morning.                                                            
                                   
At home we kept the radio on to hear the latest news. That evening we listened to the popular news commentator, Gabriel Heatter, known as the “voice of doom.” He always began his evening radio broadcast with the words, “Ah, there’s good news tonight.” And that night he was correct. We also listened to the famous Edward R. Murrow with his dramatic opening: “This [pause] is London,” and his sign-off statement: “Good night and good luck.” We never listened to Walter Winchell (my father despised him) for specializing in society gossip. But he did have a dramatic flair with his staccato delivery. He always began his broadcasts against the background of a Morse code signal with a flashy, rapid-fire greeting: “Good evening Mr. and Mrs. North and South America from border to border and coast to coast and all the ships at sea ... Let’s go to press!"
 
The D-Day landings in France and the events that followed greatly expanded everyone’s knowledge of geography; in my case, far beyond what I had learned in my sixth grade geography class. It began with Pearl Harbor, and was followed by an ever-lengthening list of initially obscure battle sites, among them Bataan, Corregidor, Singapore, Guam and Midway Islands, Guadalcanal, the Coral Sea, New Guinea, the Kassarine Pass, Salerno, Monte Casino, and many more such places in the months ahead.
 
Behind the Headlines
 
What prompted this reflective essay was my discovery of all four copies, now yellowed with age, of the June 6, 1944 D-Day Extras announcing the invasion. They were in a box of high school memorabilia stored in the attic. To my surprise, I discovered that the microfilm copy of The Racine Journal-Times in the Wisconsin Historical Society Library’s newspaper archive, did not include any of the four Extras—not a single one of them.
 
So, what should I do with these Extras? I was torn between giving them to the Wisconsin Historical Society on the UW-Madison campus or to the Wisconsin Veterans Museum on Capitol Square in downtown Madison. I realized that incorporating them into the microfilm copy would probably be impossible. Knowing the Wisconsin Historical Society already holds far more items in its collections than it can ever display, I asked the Veteran’s Museum staff members if they would be interested. Both the focus of that museum and the D-Day coverage in the Extras would increase the likelihood of their being displayed. The Veteran’s Museum Librarian told me they would love to receive this material for their collection.
 
When I delivered these newspapers to the Veteran’s Museum Librarian, she asked me how it was that I had these Extras. In response, I mentioned something about my having delivered these Extras as a paperboy on D-Day. The Librarian asked me what I could remember about that day. As I began recalling the day’s events, it occurred to me that I should write down my recollections to accompany the Extras. The result is this essay, with its reproduction of the front page of the original Extra and a collage of the banner headlines from the three subsequent Extras.
 
Writing this essay led me to take a closer look at the Extras. I was curious about how the lead stories changed from one Extra to the next. I decided to compare the content of the Extras with the regular afternoon edition of the paper. For starters, the numbering of the Extras surprised me. The first was listed as VOL. 88, NO. 132, the same number that appeared on the previous day’s edition. But each subsequent Extra carried the same issue number, 133, which was the same used on the June 6 afternoon edition. What about the content? I noticed that from one Extra to the next, the only content changes occurred in the longer front page stories that continued onto page 2. Everything else remained unchanged, and much of that appeared to be already prepared copy designed to provide readers with important background information about the invasion and preparations for it.
 
In reviewing the regular microfilm copy of the June 6 afternoon edition, I was curious about what I would find. Inasmuch as the afternoon edition ordinarily went to press at 2 p.m. (8 p.m. in France), it could not provide much more in the way of detail about the day’s events. It did, however, include more background information on the invasion, the troops involved, the military leaders in charge of the invasion, and so on.

News about the war on other fronts had not been squeezed out of the afternoon edition. Most evident was the extensive coverage of the fall of Rome to Allied forces two days earlier. Briefer reports appeared on the fighting in the Pacific and on the Russian front. Several news items reported deaths and injuries of Racine servicemen.  
 
To get the flavor of the content of the The Racine Journal-Times before the invasion, I looked closely at the May 31 edition. Imagine my surprise on reading this headline: “Armies Ready for Invasion; Traffic Streaming South.” The article that followed described the roads in southern England being choked by the movement toward the southern coast of trucks, troops, artillery, tanks, and other machinery of war. Wasn’t this a hint of what was to come? Then on June 1 a story appeared, headlined as follows: “Decisive Action Near, Declares Secretary Stimson” (Stimson was Secretary of War). Another hint. On June 5 a headline read: “Bombers Rip Installations on French Coast.” These were hints about what might be coming, but exactly when and where the invasion would occur remained cloaked in mystery.
 
The editorial page featured an array of well-known columnists, among them investigative reporter Drew Pearson, David Lawrence on political analysis, Dorothy Dix on etiquette, and Dr. William Brady on health and medicine. Plus “What happened 20, 30, and 40 years ago,” which as kids we read avidly. And the comic strips, among them Alley Oop, Red Ryder, Freckles and his Friends, and Boots and her Buddies. Plus the one-frame cartoons my Dad liked so much: “Our Boarding House” and “Out Our Way.” Finally, there was the usual coverage of sports, including the Racine Belles team which was part of All American Girls Ball League that operated during the war years in a dozen or so Middle West cities. (Remember the 1992 movie about the girls’ teams, “A League of Their Own”?)
 
The movie advertisements also caught my eye. Aside from radio, which was a major source of entertainment at home, it was the movies that took people out of their homes. Admission fees for movies were low: for kids, usually 10 cents plus a one cent wartime entertainment tax. That price bought you a double feature. Racine’s eight theaters were showing a great lineup of films featuring well-known movie stars, among them: “See Here, Private Hargrove” with Donna Reed, Keenan Wynn, and Robert Benchley; “Variety Show” with Dick Powell; “For Whom the Bells Tolled” with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman; Humphrey Bogart in “Passage to Marseille;” “Song of Bernadette” featuring Jennifer Jones; and “Girl Crazy” with Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland.
 
Turning then to the June 7 edition, I found a story, “Students Top Bond Quota.” It was about my high school, the Washington Park High School. The story reported that prior to D-Day, the school and its students still needed $6,957 in sales of War Bonds and War Stamps to reach its goal of $75,000, enough to pay for a P-51 Mustang Fighter plane. (Imagine a school trying to raise a billion dollars for today’s stealth fighter plane.) On the day after D-Day, its students—and I was among them—bought more than $10,000 in War Bonds and War Stamps to more than meet its goal. How many War Stamps did I buy that day? I don’t remember. But I do recall the home room ritual. Every Wednesday morning we each marched up to the desk of our homeroom teacher, Miss Holt, to make our weekly purchases of War Stamps. Like every home room, we pushed for 100 percent participation and usually achieved it. If any students held back, they were chastised until they coughed up their money or borrowed a dime from a classmate to buy a single stamp and give us a perfect record.
 
D-Day calls for prayers by President Roosevelt, The Racine Journal-Times Editorial Board, and local religious leaders were quite understandable because the invasion casualties were expected to be high. Hints about the casualties that might be coming appeared in the paper on June 5. In connection with the fall of Rome, the June 5 edition printed a photo showing the dedication of a temporary American military cemetery in Nettuno, Italy, where Lt. General Mark Clark, commanding the Fifth Army, had spoken. In the background appear row upon row of simple white wooden crosses inscribed with the names of the dead. Two days later, the day after D-Day, the count of American casualties in the Italian Campaign was announced in an article, “3 Day Fight Near Rome Costs U.S.” From the Salerno landing in September 1943 to the end of May 1944, casualties totaled more than 57,000, including almost 20,000 dead or missing. These numbers did not include the almost 2,500 casualties in the first three days of June as American forces converged on Rome.
 
We paperboys already knew about casualties among our military personnel. The newspapers we delivered regularly carried notices about young Racine men being drafted or enlisting, as well as those wounded or killed. From time to time we noticed changes in the service flags that wives and parents hung in their front windows to indicate that a family member served in the armed forces. In the red-bordered flags visible on my paper route, some of the blue stars mounted against a white background had already been replaced by silver stars to indicate a wounded serviceman. In several homes the blue stars had turned to gold indicating that someone living there had been killed.
 
That happened at our house seven months earlier when on November 11, 1943, Armistice Day, a dreaded “We regret to inform you  . . .“ telegram from the War Department arrived with the news that an older brother had been killed in action in Italy. The wartime death of a family member is something you don’t get over, you simply go on profoundly changed. I can still recall my Dad, on returning home from work, reading the telegraph brought to the house earlier that day by a Western Union delivery boy. I am sure Dad knew what the telegram meant before reading it. All he could say was “It’s Jim.” A few weeks later, it was then early December, Dad arrived home one evening with a phonograph record. It was Bing Crosby singing the popular ballad, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” That was the one and only time I ever saw him cry. The rest of us did too. Needless to say, that record was never played again. Even now, hearing that Holiday song brings back old and painful memories.
 
After the war, that temporary cemetery at Nettuno on what was the Anzio beachhead became the site of a permanent American Battle Monuments Military Cemetery and Memorial. Located on a long sloping hill in a lovely setting just above the town of Nettuno. The Cemetery and Memorial, which I have visited several times, is a sad but awe-inspiring sight with its almost 8,000 thousand white marble grave markers. One of them displays the name of our older brother:
 
JAMES W. HANSEN
SGT 125 FA BN 34 DIV
MINN OCT 27, 1943
 
These visits always bring a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes at the terrible waste of war. Some months after D-Day, I delivered the newspaper that announced Jim’s death and his posthumous award of the Silver Star for bravery under fire. He was one of so many young men whose lives were snuffed out long before they had an opportunity to really experience life.
 
* * *
How fortunate I am to have been able to recapture these memories, both happy and sad. It happened only because more than 70 years ago, without much thought, I stuffed these newspapers into a box of high school memorabilia and, even more remarkably, preserved them for all these years.
           
But now, the days of newspaper boys are gone. Why? Because of vast changes. Probably the most important was the rise of television and the instant news it provides. Producing Extras of the kind I delivered on D-Day in June 1944 is no longer necessary or profitable. The popularity of network evening news broadcasts caused newspapers to respond by printing morning editions. Meanwhile, the postwar world of growing prosperity made it increasingly difficult to recruit what were sometimes called “carrier salesmen” to deliver the morning papers and manage their paper routes. And now, with the advent of cell phones, everyone is instantly informed of newsworthy developments from around the world.
 
We all know the rest of the story. Newspapers are now delivered mostly by adults who rise well before dawn, load up their vehicles, speed along their routes, and toss their plastic, sleeve-wrapped slimmed-down newspapers through their open windows as they pass by subscribers’ homes. For them, this is just another job. Nobody ever meets or comes to know these anonymous workers.
 
Paperboys are history. With their disappearance, something important has been lost. What started as an important learning opportunity and, indeed, a “calling” for young boys is gone. Boys like me, my brothers, and countless others gained so much from their experience delivering newspapers. We developed at an early age not only good work habits, but also important life skills that served us well. In the past, many paperboys went on to great fame and fortune, including three U.S. Presidents (Hoover, Truman, and Eisenhower), famous entertainers (Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Ed Sullivan), and national icons (Carl Sandburg, Jackie Robinson, Martin Luther King, Jr., Isaac Asimov, and Tom Brokaw).
 
But, no more. We must recognize that with time, everything changes, including the price of those delicious Danish kringles we gobbled down on Friday afternoons; whose price rose from ten cents in 1943 to $5.00 today.

Note: For the D-Day newspaper headlines, see the next two attached pages.

Note: For their inspiration, helpful comments, and editorial suggestions, I am indebted to my former paperboy brothers; Forest and Harlan Hansen, my older sister Phyllis who never had the opportunity to become a “paperboy;” Sharon Van Sluijs, UW-Madison historian Richard Leffler, and UW-Madison’s unofficial campus historian, the late Arthur Hove.

The University of Wisconsin has its own not-yet-exposed scandal that is of a quite different kind. I refer to the numerous financial aid programs in the UW System and at UW-Madison that are open only to minority students. These programs violate both federal and state laws prohibiting discrimination based on race, color, or national origin. The question: why haven’t these violations of the law been exposed and stopped?

​Examples of UW-Madison scholarships/grants, well-advertised in UW websites, that are restricted to minority students include the Ben R. Lawton Minority Undergraduate Retention Grant Program that limits eligibility to what are known as “targeted minorities,” specifically African American, American Indian, Hispanic/Latino, and SE Asian student applicants. Among other programs with similarly restrictive minority-only eligibility requirements are the Chancellor’s Scholarship Program, McNair Scholars Program, Advanced Opportunity Program, and the Summer Undergraduate Research Program.
           
Complaints about these violations have been made to the Board of Regents on a number of occasions, the first time in 1999. Following the Board’s brushing off another similar complaint in 2005, another complaint was filed with the U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights (OCR) that is charged with enforcing Title VI of the historic Civil Rights Act of 1964. Despite the passage of 14 years, OCR has refused to rule on this well-documented, 29-page complaint.
 
The basis for these complaints, directed to the U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights, is Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which states:
 
No person in the United States shall, on the ground of race, color, or national origin, be excluded from participation in, be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any program or activity receiving Federal financial assistance.
 
These minority-only programs also violate Wis. Stats. 36.12, which states:
 
Student discrimination prohibited. (1) No student may be denied admission to, or participation in or the benefits of, or be discriminated against in any service, program, course or facilities of the system or its institutions or centers because of the student’s race, color, creed, religion, sex, national origin, disability, ancestry, age, sexual orientation, pregnancy, marital status or parental status.
 
The evidence included in the 1999 and 2005 complaints makes abundantly clear the existence of numerous minority-only scholarship/grant programs both in the UW System and at UW-Madison.
 
The UW System Board of Regents and top campus administrators have long known about these violations, in particular, that the Lawton Program violates both Wis.Stats. 36.12, and Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. The UW System legal staff has fought to prevent OCR from ruling on these complaints. OCR has demonstrated its willingness to go along with these delaying efforts by failing to rule on these complaints.
 
How can the UW System in good conscience persist in violating state and federal laws that it knows prohibit discrimination based on race, color, or national origin? Why haven’t its numerous lawyers in both Madison’s Bascom Hall and System’s offices in Van Hise, as well as top state officials, plus the UW’s diversity staff, pushed UW-Madison chancellor Becky Blank and UW System President Ray Cross, as well as the Board of Regents, to enforce the law by eliminating the restrictive eligibility requirements for these scholarship/grant programs.
 
Or is the University of Wisconsin’s commitment to “diversity” so much more important than its obligation to obey federal and state civil rights laws?  Is this another scandal whose scope when revealed will undermine public support for and the integrity of the University of Wisconsin and its leadership?

One hundred years ago today my wife Sally’s father, James W. Porch, celebrated with other American soldiers fighting in Europe, including two of my uncles, the November 11, 1918, signing of the Armistice Agreement that ended what was then known as the Great War.  Sally’s father served as a First Lieutenant and Company Commander in the 5th Infantry Division. My two uncles, my Mother’s brother Art Spillum and her brother-in-law, Miles Hulett, both fought with the 32nd Infantry Division. My uncles served in the artillery battalions of the 32nd Infantry Division. During the last six weeks of the war they all fought in the fierce Meuse-Argonne Offensive. All survived but none of them would ever talk about their wartime experience. “Too terrible to describe” is about all they would say.
 
Background
My memories of World War I go back to elementary school in the late 1930s. We regularly commemorated Armistice Day with a program of poetry and songs. Through poetry, we encountered our first exposure to war and death by reciting such well-known poems as John McRae’s “In Flanders Field” or Rupert Brooke’s “The Soldier.” Through song, we celebrated our nation and its people with patriotic favorites such as My Country ‘Tis of Thee and America the Beautiful, and perhaps a World War I song such as Over There. These programs ended just before the sacred hour of 11 a.m. when factories all over Racine, Wisconsin, where I grew up, blew their whistles. They did this to signal a two-minute pause to remember the end of the “War to End All Wars.”
 
The prose and poetry of World War I are especially interesting because they reflect the dramatic shift in sentiment about war. It shifted from initial enthusiasm to utter disillusionment as the war progressed and the casualties steadily mounted. The cruelty reality of trench war emerges from Paul Fussell’s masterful book The Great War and Modern Memory (1975). There he focuses on the interplay between war and the memory of war, how each shapes the other, as revealed by the war’s prose and poetry. Fussell’s later book The Norton Book of Modern War (1991), offers a good sampling of the war’s prose and poetry, both by those who participated in the war and those on the home front most affected by it. His excerpt from Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth (1933) is especially moving; her finance, a brother, and several dear male friends were all killed in the war. So also is Neil Hanson’s book, Unknown Soldiers: The Story of the Missing of the First World War (2005). Several other books are described on the back of tonight’s program.
 
American battle casualties in World War I came to more than 50,000 killed and more than 200,000 wounded. These numbers paled by comparison with the casualties suffered by the French (1,400,000 killed), the British Empire (almost 1,000,000 killed including 750,000 from England and Scotland), and, Germany (more than 2 million killed).
 
After the war something had to be done with the more than 50,000 American servicemen buried in temporary graves in France. In 1923 Congress established the American Battle Monuments Commission. Its charge was to lead efforts to commemorate those Americans who lost their lives. The Commission quickly recognized that permanent cemeteries were needed. Sites were selected in northeastern France for 15 battle monuments and cemeteries. Before the remains of fallen soldiers were moved to their final resting places, their next-of-kin were given the option of requesting that the bodies of their loved ones be returned for burial in the United States; more than half the families requested the return of their loved ones for burial here.  
 
Great effort went into the design of these cemeteries and battle monuments in land ceded by France to the U.S. Eminent architects were commissioned to design not only these cemeteries and memorial monuments but also their accompanying artwork and landscaping. Each cemetery is surrounded by a large decorative, iron fence, In addition to the cemetery office and a visitor’s building located inside the front gate, the memorial is located at the back of the cemetery. That structure contains a small chapel. It lists the names of the Missing in Action, those soldiers whose bodies could not be found. Each name is followed by the military unit to which the soldier was attached. The structure also includes a map depicting the battlefield. Finally, there is usually some artwork and perhaps an appropriate quotation. Everything about the battle memorials is most tastefully done. There is no glorification of war; simply a recognition of the sacrifice of those who are memorialized there.
 
What is most impressive as one approaches these cemeteries is the sea of white crosses in perfectly aligned rows that mark the graves of those buried there. As already noted, each marble cross lists the name of the soldier buried there, his rank and military unit, the state from which he came, and the date of his death. Interspersed are crosses for the Unknowns that carry the words: HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY AN AMERICAN SOLDIER KNOWN BUT TO GOD. Some crosses are topped with the Star of David. A few crosses indicate the person buried there received the Congressional Medal of Honor, the Nation’s highest award for gallantry in battle. Again, the placement of the grave markers, in perfectly straight lines, or often in gently curving rows, adds to the majesty of the scene.  The result is a remarkable network of American cemeteries and memorials that represent and honor the many Americans who gave their lives in the Great War.
 
As you may recall, the German Army invaded France and Belgium in the summer of 1914. They fought tenaciously against the combined English and French armies, which were supplemented by soldiers from the British Commonwealth and the French colonies. Eventually, in 1918, the arrival of more than two million American soldiers shifted the balance of power. Though often poorly trained, the American troops fought with great energy and courage. After the aggressive Allied military campaigns in the summer and fall of 1918, the tide of battle turned. By November 1918 the Germans were in retreat. But, they never ceded without a fight the ground they occupied since the beginning of the war.
 
My Pilgrimage
Let me now shift ground and tell you about my last summer “pilgrimage” to the World War cemeteries and memorials.
 
The first of the cemeteries we visited is named the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery. It is located adjacent to Belleau Wood. There the Marines assigned to capture that strategic area suffered enormous casualties in charging against the more-experienced and well-entrenched German forces.  That battle, which lasted six days, ended with the American capture of that area. Visitors can walk up a hill behind the cemetery to view the scene of the Belleau Woods battle. Some still-preserved trenches there had been occupied by both American and German forces as the battle see-sawed back and forth.
 
This cemetery contains the graves of 2,289 killed and the names of 1,060 Missing in Action, plus 249 Unknowns. The cemetery is strikingly beautiful, with its plots of perfectly-aligned white marble crosses. As already noted, each grave marker lists the name of the soldier buried there, along with his rank, unit, state of residence, and date of death. The impressive memorial monument at the rear of the cemetery, includes a small chapel, lists the names of the Missing in Action, displays a map of the surrounding battle area, and includes some information about the military units that fought there. The artwork and statuary is most tastefully done.
 
I very much wanted to revisit the Meuse-Argonne cemetery where my relatives fought. The cemetery commemorates the American-mounted offensive to break through the German lines and force their retreat back to Germany. This campaign, lasting from September 26 through October 26, 1918, proved to be successful. But, it resulted in more than 26,000 American dead and 75,000 wounded. This cemetery, the largest from World War I, is the final resting place for 14,246 soldiers and 954 Missing in Action. Many of the dead from that campaign had been returned for burial in the United States.
 
Sally’s father, a First Lieutenant in the 61st Brigade of the 5th Infantry Division, fought in this vicious campaign. He survived unharmed; so did my two uncles. But, as noted earlier, he would never talk about their military service in France; nor would my two uncles. (A sense for the battle is revealed by film clips that can be found by googling the World War I Meuse-Argonne campaign.)
 
My most depressing experience was visiting the British Memorial at Thiepval. It lists the names of the more than 72,000 Missing in Action British and Commonwealth soldiers whose bodies could never be found or identified. This number is not that surprising in light of the intense shelling by both the Allied and the German artillery. The unlucky soldiers hit by artillery shells were simply obliterated.  Because of the intensity of the fighting, many of the dead and wounded had to be left in No Man’s Land where they were eventually destroyed by subsequent shelling, drowned in the mud and water of shell holes, or devoured by the ever-present rats. 
 
The large number of the Missing In Action can be understood by knowing something about the Battle of the Somme that raged from July 1, 1916 to November 2, 1916. British casualties on the first day of that battle came to 19,000 dead and another 40,000 wounded as the British troops, charging across No Man’s Land, were mowed down by the new “engine of death”, the machine gun. Most of the dead and wounded could not be retrieved because the frontline remained unchanged as a result of this costly battle.
 
Being in France, we took the opportunity to visit Normandy, the site of the World War II D-Day invasion. The Normandy American cemetery there contains the graves of 9,387 war dead, and lists the names of the 1,557  Missing in Action—those who died in the D-Day invasion and the hedge-row fighting that continued in the following several months. 
 
And, now to the second and more difficult part of my pilgrimage, a subject I still find difficult to talk about. This was my return visit to the World War II Sicily-Rome American Cemetery in Nettuno, Italy, about 40 miles south of Rome. On my first visit in 1953, the cemetery’s construction was not yet complete. The graves markers were in place but the memorial monument was still under construction and the landscaping remained incomplete. What most impressed me now, 65 years later, is the greatly increased beauty of that cemetery. The Roman Pine trees have attained their full height of 50-60 feet, carefully-trimmed shrubbery demarks the major sections of the cemetery, several garden plots are bright with color, and the well-mowed grass is bright green in the morning sunlight. The memorial monument is striking.
 
The reason for this trip? To visit the grave of an older brother, James W. Hansen, a member of the 34th Infantry Division. On October 27, 1943---75 years ago--- he was killed in action in the brutal Italian Campaign. He was a Sergeant, and a forward observer in the 125th Field Artillery Battalion. His job was to be on the front line directing the firing of the behind-the-lines artillery battalions on enemy targets---troops and tanks that were holding up the advance of the division’s infantry units. At great risk to himself, he moved forward while under enemy fire. From his advanced position he successfully directed artillery fire against a formation of enemy tanks holding up the advance. He continued doing so until he was killed by enemy machine gun fire.
 
For gallantry in action, he was awarded posthumously a Silver Star, the third highest battle decoration, following the Congressional Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Service Medal. Ironically, the telegram announcing his death, “We regret to inform you .  .  .” arrived on Armistice Day, November 11th 1953, exactly 25 years after the signing of the November 11, 1918 Armistice Agreement that ended “the war to end all wars.”
 
I have difficulty saying much more about this part of my visit. What is so sad is the large numbers of young Americans, like my brother, who were killed or missing in action. Plus the many more who were wounded, often seriously, and spent their lives in Veterans’ Administration hospitals. Most of them were like the boys we and our parents attended high school with. Sadly, they were cut down before they ever had a chance to make their mark in civilian society.
 
In talking with cemetery officials, I was gratified to know that family members, like me, brothers, now-adult children, and friends, continue to visit these cemeteries to pay their respects to the many thousands of young men buried in them. 
​
These many deaths turn out to be the price we have to pay to defend our liberty and to protect us from the tyranny of foreign madmen like the German Kaiser in World War I and dictators like Hitler and Mussolini and their followers in World War II.
  
Let me close with this observation by the famous Albert Schweitzer. “The soldiers' graves are the greatest preachers of peace."  If only that were true. 
 
Since World War I, we have fought in World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Granada, Panama, Kuwait, Iraq, and currently, Afghanistan. When will it ever end?
 
On that sad note, thank all of you for coming to tonight’s program.

MADISON - Sally (Porch) Hansen died at BrightStar Senior Living, on March 10, 2016. There she reached the end of a decade-long descent into the darkness of dementia and with it release from the agitation and anxiety caused by that dreadful disease.

Sally will be remembered as a teacher, feminist, mentor, and friend. Also known as a lover of cats, chocolate, and conversation, she lived a vigorous, involved, and intellectually engaged life.

Born on Jan. 23, 1929, in Kankakee, Ill., to James W. and Rachel B. Chadwick Porch, Sally grew up in Detroit, Mich. A 1951 graduate with honors from Wayne State University, she became a high school English teacher. In the summer of 1954 she completed an M.A. degree in English Literature at UW-Madison.
While serving as a dormitory Housefellow that summer, Sally dated W. Lee Hansen another Housefellow, a graduate student in economics. After their marriage on Dec. 26, 1955, she joined Lee in Baltimore, where she taught English at the prestigious all-girls Eastern High School. In 1957 they moved to Washington, D.C., where their daughter, Ellen, was born, and then to Los Angeles, Calif., in 1958, where another daughter, Martha, was born in 1960.

A series of moves took them from Los Angeles to Chicago, back to Los Angeles, and then again to Washington, D.C., before Lee's appointment in the UW-Madison Economics Department in January 1965. Sally quickly became active in the Madison chapter of the National Organization for Women (NOW), the League of Women Voters, and the Junior Great Books Program. She also resumed her intellectual pursuits in UW courses and, inspired by Professors Harry Clark and Joyce Steward, published several papers.

As one of her proudest accomplishments in those early Madison years, Sally spearheaded institution of a city-wide school lunch program. Her motivation: to enable mothers of school-age children to join the workforce by relieving them of having to be home preparing meals for their children during the 90-minute lunch period. Madison's school lunch program, begun in 1967, will mark its 50th anniversary next year.

In 1969 Sally began teaching English and Communications at the Madison Area Technical College. Rather than selecting the liberal arts, college-transfer program, as might be expected for someone with her background in language and literature, she chose to teach students in technical fields, who were less than enthusiastic about learning writing skills. To gain perspective on teaching these practically-minded students, she spent a sabbatical year enrolled in courses on welding, auto mechanics, and printing. She used this "hands-on" learning to discover new ways of reaching these students and thereby earned their lasting respect.

While at MATC, Sally did much to pave the way for women who felt intimidated by the all-male, "locker room" environment then dominating the East Side Tech Center. So pervasive were gender assumptions in that era that the building had been constructed without women's bathroom facilities! Never afraid of a confrontation, Sally spoke out about issues female faculty and students faced in this environment. She provided individual support to victims of sexual harassment and was instrumental in establishing a system-wide grievance procedure to deal with such complaints. She also mentored many female instructors, who admired her high teaching standards.

After retiring in 1993, Sally took up another form of instruction: teaching English as a Second Language through the Madison Friends of International Students (MFIS). When health problems eventually interfered with her classroom teaching, she became a conversational partner with a succession of young women, mainly wives of young faculty or graduate students from countries including Thailand, Turkey, China, Italy, Pakistan, and South Korea. She found this one-on-one teaching extremely satisfying and formed lasting friendships with these young women.

Always available for coffee at Starbucks or lunch at the old Ovens of Brittany, Sally enjoyed nothing more than a lively conversation. She was a friend to many who deeply appreciated her ability to listen empathetically and to offer support and perspective about personal and professional issues. She was also well known for her irreverent sense of humor and her low tolerance of pomposity; she did not suffer fools gladly and did not mind saying so. Her direct (some would call it "blunt") communication style was appreciated by those who had similar thoughts they were hesitant to express. This facility also made Sally a valued member of several book groups and engaged her active membership in the First Unitarian Society and her involvement in the work of Planned Parenthood, NARAL, and the Hemlock Society (now Compassion and Choices).

Well-known for her love of the English language, Sally was frequently sought out by friends and family members for guidance on grammar and usage. Indeed, even as her memory faded, she regularly corrected the grammar and pronunciation of those who cared for her, whether doctors, nurses, or assisted living staff members. However, given her erudition in this area, grounded in four years of high school Latin, she was, during her teaching career, remarkably forgiving of her students' grammatical lapses; to those completely bewildered by the apostrophe, her advice was to simply not use it at all!

My wife Sally heard this discussion, and a sideways glance revealed her distress. After the doctor left I explained that since I was in good health I was in no danger and hence the question had no practical significance. 
 
Later that evening I thought again about my decision and Sally’s reaction. I decided I might have been too hasty replying as I did. Maybe I did want CPR after all. So, I removed the CPR wristband, not an easy task, and gave it to the nurse along with a note asking to have NO CPR order rescinded. The nurse read the note and said that only the doctor could change the order. I said, okay, I’d like to speak with the doctor.
 
An hour later the doctor arrived and greeted me with a quizzical look. “So, you changed your mind?” I replied that perhaps I did but wanted her to elaborate the pros and cons of CPR. She responded with a question: “How do you want to die? Do you want a peaceful death as might occur in hospice care? Or do you want a dozen people crowded around your hospital bed, one person on top of you administering CPR while another is giving you a shot in the arm, still another is hooking you up to an IV, and yet another is jamming some tubes down your throat?”
 
She went on to explain that as we age the body begins to wear down and then wear out. Our skin becomes wrinkled and less resilient, our bones become weaker and break more easily, our organs no longer operate as effectively as they once did, and the heart—eventually it stops because it is worn out. In that case, what are the prospects for a quality life even if you can be resuscitated?  Her reasoning made good sense.
 
The doctor described a recent Canadian study on the odds of being able to resume a normal life after CPR and how the odds varied with demographic characteristics. She said that at my age, 80, the likelihood of being able to walk out of the hospital after CPR and resume a normal life is far less than 10 percent; it might be closer to zero.
 
Hearing that, I asked for another NO CPR bracelet. A moment later the nurse reappeared with a replacement “NO CPR” bracelet. I felt much better knowing what the study revealed rather than allowing emotion to govern my decision. When I later explained this to Sally, she agreed.
 
The next morning the same admitting doctor entered my room followed by a resident and several interns. She briefed the interns on my condition. After she finished, I asked her to explain the Canadian CPR study results. She turned to the group and asked: What do you think is the likelihood a man this age, age 80, who if his heart stopped beating and CPR was administered would survive and be able to return home and lead a normal life? One intern ventured a guess of 30 percent, another 50 percent. She told him the odds were less than 10 percent. They gasped in surprise.
 
Before I checked out of the hospital, the doctor gave me a copy of the Canadian study (Brindly et al). Here are the sobering results. Of the 247 hospitalized patients who received CPR following cardiac or respiratory arrest, 91 were able to be resuscitated, but only 33 survived to hospital discharge, and only 28 of them were discharged and able to return home. For patients age 80 and over, the success rate was far lower, with only one of the 42 being able to resume a normal life.
 
Another study (Bobrow et al) reported on the results of out-of-hospital CPR. Of the 4415 who received bystander CPR, only 310 (7.1 percent) survived to hospital discharge. Of the 217 for whom neurologic information was available, approximately one-third of them (31.1 percent) suffered some form of neurologic damage, including moderate cerebral disability, severe cerebral disability, or coma or vegetative state.
 
A nurse later told me most patients don’t know enough to make an informed decision about CPR. Families are usually so eager to keep their loved ones alive that they insist on CPR even when hospital personnel doubt its effectiveness. Though administering CPR may extend life, it is usually a life of much diminished quality. That’s what family members don’t realize.
 
The clincher came when after returning home I checked Google for more information. What stood out was this. In popular television programs two-thirds of hospital patients who receive CPR survive and live happily ever after (Diem et al). What a contrast to the reality of hospital experience with its vastly lower full recovery rates.
 
Next time they cart me off  to a hospital, there will be no hesitation. Give me a bracelet, saying “No CPR, Please!” If I am unable to speak, the metallic “No CPR” bracelet on my right wrist will speak for me.

References:
Bentley J. Bobrow, Daniel W. Spaite, Robert A. Berg, et al. Chest Compression only CPR by Lay Rescuers and Survival from Out-of-Hospital Cardiac Arrest. JAMA. 2010;304(13):1447-1454 (doi:10.1001/jama.2010.1392).
 
Peter G. Brindley, Darren M. Markland, Irvin Mayers, and Demetrios J. Kutsogiannis. Predictors of survival following in-hospital adult cardiopulmonary resuscitation. CMAJ/2002:167(4)):343-8.
 
Susan J. Diem, M.D., M.P.H., John D. Lantos, M.D., and James A. Tulsky, M.D. Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation on Television — Miracles and Misinformation.
N Engl J Med, 1996; 334:1578-82.