Dolly and James Madison must be Virginia-reeling all over the rainbows and clouds these days. Power couples are all the rage. The Cheney's today and the Madison's from a long time ago.
I went to the American Enterprise Institute (AEI) in Washington, DC on Monday night to hear Lynne and the former Vice President talk about her new book, "James Madison: A Life Reconsidered." The overflow crowd was enthusiastic during the evening that The Washington Post called "Fun with Dick & Lynne." It WAS fun. But it was much more than just fun. It was very informative. The Cheney's will be talking about the book at both the Nixon and Reagan Presidential Libraries next week. Anybody who can join them, we'll enjoy the experience.
Lynne worked hard on this book for six years. It shows. She knows her chosen subject, and believes that Madison has not been appreciated for the contributions he made to the framing of the constitution and Bill of Rights. His major role in the founding of our country has been largely ignored by historians. Lynne is changing that. The New York Times book review said, "She clearly brings to life the character and personality of Madison."
The Vice President asked her questions, kind of a reverse of what we all saw on the campaign trail and his book tour, when either Lynne or daughter, Liz, would interview him. The story of the Red Dress is still there, but without the Red Dress. It's now about the fact that if Dick's grandfather had chosen to settle in Montana instead of Wyoming, he would never have met Lynne, she would have married someone else, and HE would have been vice president. The audience loved it.
The Vice President said, "When I write my books, she is sort of an in-house editor. When she writes her books, I get to read it when she is finished."
I didn't wait in line to buy a book, or have it signed. Bobbie Kilberg said to me, "Why are you going to stand in line, when you are neighbors in Jackson Hole?" Good thinking, Bobbie. I'll catch up with Dick and Lynne this summer. By then I will have read the book, and may have a few questions of my own.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
A Blue Ribbon
I didn't grow up in a "4-H Environment" like Ron did. I didn't really enjoy county fairs that much. They always seemed too crowded, too hot, too dusty, too smelly and I really hated the scary rides. "Fair Food" like corny dogs weren't my favorite, but the cotton candy wasn't too bad. You couldn't pay me enough money to get on a Ferris Wheel, except the one at the Fun Zone in Balboa of course. I was used to that one and it was small, friendly, and had the best view ever! The bay was a hub-bub of summer fun; sailboats, paddle boats, row boats, swimmers, fishers, and sunbathers all along the sand. I loved to look down on the Balboa Ferry as it crossed back and forth from the peninsula to Balboa Island. I loved that place. Still do.
Now guess what? I just won a Blue Ribbon at the Pima County fair here in Tucson, Arizona. WOW! How fun is that?
I entered one of my hand stitched quilts. It's an American Flag. Well, it's more like an "Americana" quilt. It has a different fabric for each stripe and the stars are sewn-on-white-buttons. I was pleased with the finished product and I guess the judges were too.
Being a county fair, means the exhibit itself leaves a little something to be desired. But, hey, you can't have everything!
Monday, January 27, 2014
Remembering Helen Fannie Bartlett Hudson Lovaas
Helen died this January. She was the sister I never had, along with Anita, of course. Anita Louise Merryman Bowers is my longest known friend, we met on the very first day of kindergarten. Helen came into our lives a few years later.
There have been others who have blessed me with their sister-hood: Barbara, Nancy, Susie, Marcia, JoAnne, Marty, Ginny, to name just a few, but I digress.
Anita, Helen and I were an inseparable three-some all during our school years. We loved being together and called each other Fartlett, Merryhairy, and Frizzy Lucille. We thought we were very clever and funny.
In the 1950's, Temple City, California, was a blue collar, predominately lily white community. I lived right around the corner from the school, so Helen and Anita were almost always at my house. My mother, a stay at home mom, loved my friends, but she feared that their blue collar upbringing was not preparing them in certain areas, like table manners, the use of good grammar, and just the normal every day things that proper young ladies should know and practice. I, of course was mortified when my mother lectured and corrected my friends, but it didn't cause them to stay away from my house. In fact, I noticed, they often sought out my mother and had long talks with her.
Then Helen and I went away to college together. We went by overnight train to Tucson to attend the University of Arizona. We arrived wearing dresses, hats and gloves. The year was 1956.
Helen had lots of family in Tucson. I arrived knowing nothing and nobody, except that my dear Cousin Carol Anne Fitch Juliani had loved her time at the UofA and her recommendation was all I needed.
Helen and I had decided not to room together. We didn't want to appear cliquish and unfriendly. In hindsight, that was our first mistake. Helen's roommate was a student in the College of Agriculture. The first thing she did every morning was light up a Lucky Strike. The last thing she did every night was bring her saddle into the room, so no one would steal it. Helen complained all the time about the smell of smoke and horse sweat that she had to live with.
My room-mate was a mousy, wimpy little thing, desperately homesick for the farm back in Iowa. She left before the end of our first semester. Helen moved into my room in the freshman only, women only, dorm; Yavapai. Life was perfect.
We found total hilarity and a little less compatibility, in the personality of each other. Helen just moved and talked slower than me. I was always early and she was always late. I had pledged Delta Gama and Helen became a Gamma Phi. She made her grades and was initiated with my mother's pin. I didn't make my grades . . . for three semesters.
In those days, the dorm big shots conducted random room checks. If your beds (they were bunks, me on top, Helen on the lower) were not neatly made, three times, you were campused on a Friday night. No one wanted to miss all the TGIF festivities. Helen and I were always campused. The rules were strict. No visitors allowed.
We spent our campused evenings playing, "Ah Hell." (Never studying, which was probably the intended purpose of the whole thing.) It was a double solitaire-type card game that we played with two decks of cards, sitting on the floor, with an overturned cardboard box as our card table. The one who got the most cards on the middle stacks when an ace was played, was the winner. We slapped each others hands so hard and so often trying to get our card played first, that our hands became beet red in the process. We yelled and screamed and laughed so loud that the dorm Pooh-bah would bang on our door and demand to know who all was in our room? We'd open the door, after a "drive-her-crazy planned wait" and greet her with, "TA DUM." We knew she hated us, but it was what she deserved for campusing us all the time. We didn't have time to make our beds, for heavens sake!
I was blessed to be welcomed into Helen's family. They were all so good to me. We would check out of the dorm and spend weekends with her Aunt Susie Bollin. Her son Rex and his partner Bob, lived there too. We must have been such an annoyance to them, except we didn't realize it at the time. If I answered Aunt Susie's phone when one of them called from work, I would always hear insulting comments like, "Are you there cookie snatching, again?" or "I need to talk to the only person in the house that has a lick of good sense." I'm sure they probably said even worse things to Helen, but secretly we loved to be teased by them and they always made us laugh.
Helen's Aunt Wilmarine Atkinson came and rescued me from the infirmary on campus once when I got really sick. She insisted on taking me home and nursing me back to health. She had four children. How blessed I was by her kindness and caring, and all because I was Helen's friend.
Helen and I took a folk dancing class together. We were really good at the polka. In fact, we were the very best polka-ing couple in the class and our fancy footwork was the envy of all our class mates.
Helen thought it was hysterical to use my toothbrush to style her eyebrows. I retaliated by sticking a few hundred pin holes in he tube of toothpaste. I know there are countless other things we constantly did to each other, but they are just too numerous to list.
We graduated, got married, and moved away from each other. Helen married Alan Hudson, a class-mate of ours and became the hard working brains behind the Hudson Oxygen Therapy Company, Eventually becoming the CEO. She spent 38 years at Hudson. She was really good at it, too.
By the time Alan Hudson died, he and Helen were divorced and she was married to Dr. Lee Lovaas. Alan left the business to her and she turned right around and made a generous donation, in his name, to the Sarver Heart Board at the University of Arizona. She and Lee were active board members at Sarver for many years.
One day, while talking on the phone, I told Helen that I had an appointment to see a cardiologist at Sarver. She wanted to know who it was and when I told her, she said, "Oh No. You need to see Dr. Gordon Ewy." I argued that he was famous, had invented compression CPR, and was not taking new patients." She told me we'd have to see about that. Two days later, Dr. Ewy called me to tell me I had an appointment to see him. He said that Helen told him to see me and he always did everything Helen told him to do.
In 2008, Dr. Ewy oversaw my aortic valve replacement surgery. The care I received could not have been better. Ron and I were blessed to become friends and patients of Dr. Ewy and we now serve on the Sarver Heart Center Board. All of this happened because of my friend, Helen.
Years later, Anita, Helen and I were reminiscing about our girlhood years, and I attempted to apologize for my mother's lectures to them. Oh no, they both assured me, and they expressed their deep gratitude for the opportunity to learn so many important life lessons from her. They felt it was very dear of her to care and want to improve their lives. Anita felt that her mother either didn't know enough or didn't really care about such things. Helen went even further. She said she never would have been a Gamma Phi without my mother's influence, and she would not have been a proper bride for the only son of a very prominent family. Hers was a huge, heartfelt, admission that not many people would have been willing to articulate.
Helen said it to Anita and me with deep conviction and a great deal of gratitude. I made me so proud of both my friend and my mother. I know they are having the best Gamma Phi reunion in heaven that two sisters could ever enjoy. But I miss them both.
Helen, me and Anita in 1997.
A memorial service was held for Helen on January 25, 2014. My daughter Lisa and I drove over to Southern California from Tucson. The large "campus" of The Emmanuel Faith community church was filled with Helen's family and friends. Many gave testimony to her generosity and friendship.
"She was not only my boss at Hudson, she was my dear friend," was something we heard over and over. As the Hudson Company grew, under her leadership, she hired people to do yet another job that she had been doing. She knew how to do everything. When the computer age arrived, she went to "programming school" so she'd know how to do that, too.
I always thought Helen was quite amazing, but at her memorial service I learned that she was even more incredible than I had known. Well done, dear friend. You will be missed by so many.
There have been others who have blessed me with their sister-hood: Barbara, Nancy, Susie, Marcia, JoAnne, Marty, Ginny, to name just a few, but I digress.
Anita, Helen and I were an inseparable three-some all during our school years. We loved being together and called each other Fartlett, Merryhairy, and Frizzy Lucille. We thought we were very clever and funny.
In the 1950's, Temple City, California, was a blue collar, predominately lily white community. I lived right around the corner from the school, so Helen and Anita were almost always at my house. My mother, a stay at home mom, loved my friends, but she feared that their blue collar upbringing was not preparing them in certain areas, like table manners, the use of good grammar, and just the normal every day things that proper young ladies should know and practice. I, of course was mortified when my mother lectured and corrected my friends, but it didn't cause them to stay away from my house. In fact, I noticed, they often sought out my mother and had long talks with her.
Then Helen and I went away to college together. We went by overnight train to Tucson to attend the University of Arizona. We arrived wearing dresses, hats and gloves. The year was 1956.
Helen had lots of family in Tucson. I arrived knowing nothing and nobody, except that my dear Cousin Carol Anne Fitch Juliani had loved her time at the UofA and her recommendation was all I needed.
Helen and I had decided not to room together. We didn't want to appear cliquish and unfriendly. In hindsight, that was our first mistake. Helen's roommate was a student in the College of Agriculture. The first thing she did every morning was light up a Lucky Strike. The last thing she did every night was bring her saddle into the room, so no one would steal it. Helen complained all the time about the smell of smoke and horse sweat that she had to live with.
My room-mate was a mousy, wimpy little thing, desperately homesick for the farm back in Iowa. She left before the end of our first semester. Helen moved into my room in the freshman only, women only, dorm; Yavapai. Life was perfect.
We found total hilarity and a little less compatibility, in the personality of each other. Helen just moved and talked slower than me. I was always early and she was always late. I had pledged Delta Gama and Helen became a Gamma Phi. She made her grades and was initiated with my mother's pin. I didn't make my grades . . . for three semesters.
In those days, the dorm big shots conducted random room checks. If your beds (they were bunks, me on top, Helen on the lower) were not neatly made, three times, you were campused on a Friday night. No one wanted to miss all the TGIF festivities. Helen and I were always campused. The rules were strict. No visitors allowed.
We spent our campused evenings playing, "Ah Hell." (Never studying, which was probably the intended purpose of the whole thing.) It was a double solitaire-type card game that we played with two decks of cards, sitting on the floor, with an overturned cardboard box as our card table. The one who got the most cards on the middle stacks when an ace was played, was the winner. We slapped each others hands so hard and so often trying to get our card played first, that our hands became beet red in the process. We yelled and screamed and laughed so loud that the dorm Pooh-bah would bang on our door and demand to know who all was in our room? We'd open the door, after a "drive-her-crazy planned wait" and greet her with, "TA DUM." We knew she hated us, but it was what she deserved for campusing us all the time. We didn't have time to make our beds, for heavens sake!
I was blessed to be welcomed into Helen's family. They were all so good to me. We would check out of the dorm and spend weekends with her Aunt Susie Bollin. Her son Rex and his partner Bob, lived there too. We must have been such an annoyance to them, except we didn't realize it at the time. If I answered Aunt Susie's phone when one of them called from work, I would always hear insulting comments like, "Are you there cookie snatching, again?" or "I need to talk to the only person in the house that has a lick of good sense." I'm sure they probably said even worse things to Helen, but secretly we loved to be teased by them and they always made us laugh.
Helen's Aunt Wilmarine Atkinson came and rescued me from the infirmary on campus once when I got really sick. She insisted on taking me home and nursing me back to health. She had four children. How blessed I was by her kindness and caring, and all because I was Helen's friend.
Helen and I took a folk dancing class together. We were really good at the polka. In fact, we were the very best polka-ing couple in the class and our fancy footwork was the envy of all our class mates.
Helen thought it was hysterical to use my toothbrush to style her eyebrows. I retaliated by sticking a few hundred pin holes in he tube of toothpaste. I know there are countless other things we constantly did to each other, but they are just too numerous to list.
We graduated, got married, and moved away from each other. Helen married Alan Hudson, a class-mate of ours and became the hard working brains behind the Hudson Oxygen Therapy Company, Eventually becoming the CEO. She spent 38 years at Hudson. She was really good at it, too.
By the time Alan Hudson died, he and Helen were divorced and she was married to Dr. Lee Lovaas. Alan left the business to her and she turned right around and made a generous donation, in his name, to the Sarver Heart Board at the University of Arizona. She and Lee were active board members at Sarver for many years.
One day, while talking on the phone, I told Helen that I had an appointment to see a cardiologist at Sarver. She wanted to know who it was and when I told her, she said, "Oh No. You need to see Dr. Gordon Ewy." I argued that he was famous, had invented compression CPR, and was not taking new patients." She told me we'd have to see about that. Two days later, Dr. Ewy called me to tell me I had an appointment to see him. He said that Helen told him to see me and he always did everything Helen told him to do.
In 2008, Dr. Ewy oversaw my aortic valve replacement surgery. The care I received could not have been better. Ron and I were blessed to become friends and patients of Dr. Ewy and we now serve on the Sarver Heart Center Board. All of this happened because of my friend, Helen.
Years later, Anita, Helen and I were reminiscing about our girlhood years, and I attempted to apologize for my mother's lectures to them. Oh no, they both assured me, and they expressed their deep gratitude for the opportunity to learn so many important life lessons from her. They felt it was very dear of her to care and want to improve their lives. Anita felt that her mother either didn't know enough or didn't really care about such things. Helen went even further. She said she never would have been a Gamma Phi without my mother's influence, and she would not have been a proper bride for the only son of a very prominent family. Hers was a huge, heartfelt, admission that not many people would have been willing to articulate.
Helen said it to Anita and me with deep conviction and a great deal of gratitude. I made me so proud of both my friend and my mother. I know they are having the best Gamma Phi reunion in heaven that two sisters could ever enjoy. But I miss them both.
A memorial service was held for Helen on January 25, 2014. My daughter Lisa and I drove over to Southern California from Tucson. The large "campus" of The Emmanuel Faith community church was filled with Helen's family and friends. Many gave testimony to her generosity and friendship.
"She was not only my boss at Hudson, she was my dear friend," was something we heard over and over. As the Hudson Company grew, under her leadership, she hired people to do yet another job that she had been doing. She knew how to do everything. When the computer age arrived, she went to "programming school" so she'd know how to do that, too.
I always thought Helen was quite amazing, but at her memorial service I learned that she was even more incredible than I had known. Well done, dear friend. You will be missed by so many.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Who Stole August?
August was always my very favorite summer month. The last few years I have noticed that it's basically gone. How did this happen? Why isn't everyone complaining?
I finally realized I wasn't alone when I read "Whatever Happened to August?" in the August 16-17 weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal.
When I was a kid, my parents always rented a beach house in Balboa, California, for the entire month of August. I loved it there. The "Peck House" (named for the owners) was really a dump, set on a large lot that stretched between two streets, and it was full of charm. The yard boasted a huge, brick, wood burning BBQ, with both a griddle and a grate. We had so many great meals at the picnic table in the yard.
The outdoor shower had a knot-hole that was really a peep hole and I always made sure that a wash-cloth was in place when I took a shower. Many a hilarious game of tug of war was played on either side of that knot hole every summer. Shampoo in the eye was caused by keeping one eye out for the slowly disappearing wash cloth, a happening that was always good for shrieks and giggles.
Days were long, lazy and perfect. High tides were a happening that often lapped the sidewalks and erased all the footprints on the sand. The look of the pristine beach was one of pure delight.
The Peck house was half way between the bay and the ocean, about a block in either direction. Little kids and all the moms spent the day on the bay. When I got older I spent the entire day body surfing and shooting the curl at the ocean. The only rules were that I had to stay in front of the life guard stand and couldn't go in the water if the flag was red, because that meant dangerous surfing conditions.
My brother Rob and I slept in bunk beds, barely bigger than the screened in porch on the side of the house. We hung our clothes on wooden pegs, and didn't care a twit that we didn't have a closet. The place next door was so close, we could hear every word that was being said over there. One vivid memory is of a mom repeatedly saying, "Markie, drink your bosco." Finally, I took my head out from under my pillow and yelled, "For God sake, Markie, please drink your bosco." Our parents laughed about it for years.
During my Junior High and High School summers, I was required to work at my Dad's company in the heart of un-air-conditioned, industrial Los Angeles. I was the switchboard operator vacation relief person. It was hot and miserable, but I would count the days until August 1st, and dream of being a beach rat again.
Ocean temperatures are the warmest in August. Corn and peaches are the sweetest. Tomatoes are the most delicious. The grunion are running. Life is good. Beaches are the best.
I never had to go back to school until AFTER Labor Day. I don't know what I would have done with out my August on the beach. Why did this change?
Our grandsons had to go back to school in Tucson on August 5 this year. As I write this it is still a 108 degrees in Tucson. Schools starting so early have a domino effect. Restaurants lose their summer workers, summer camps lose their counselors and have to close early, life guard stands at pools and beaches are empty. Why has this happened? Why is it OK to steal summer from kids? There ought to be a law. Whichever Presidential candidate vows to take August back gets my vote.
I finally realized I wasn't alone when I read "Whatever Happened to August?" in the August 16-17 weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal.
When I was a kid, my parents always rented a beach house in Balboa, California, for the entire month of August. I loved it there. The "Peck House" (named for the owners) was really a dump, set on a large lot that stretched between two streets, and it was full of charm. The yard boasted a huge, brick, wood burning BBQ, with both a griddle and a grate. We had so many great meals at the picnic table in the yard.
The outdoor shower had a knot-hole that was really a peep hole and I always made sure that a wash-cloth was in place when I took a shower. Many a hilarious game of tug of war was played on either side of that knot hole every summer. Shampoo in the eye was caused by keeping one eye out for the slowly disappearing wash cloth, a happening that was always good for shrieks and giggles.
Days were long, lazy and perfect. High tides were a happening that often lapped the sidewalks and erased all the footprints on the sand. The look of the pristine beach was one of pure delight.
The Peck house was half way between the bay and the ocean, about a block in either direction. Little kids and all the moms spent the day on the bay. When I got older I spent the entire day body surfing and shooting the curl at the ocean. The only rules were that I had to stay in front of the life guard stand and couldn't go in the water if the flag was red, because that meant dangerous surfing conditions.
My brother Rob and I slept in bunk beds, barely bigger than the screened in porch on the side of the house. We hung our clothes on wooden pegs, and didn't care a twit that we didn't have a closet. The place next door was so close, we could hear every word that was being said over there. One vivid memory is of a mom repeatedly saying, "Markie, drink your bosco." Finally, I took my head out from under my pillow and yelled, "For God sake, Markie, please drink your bosco." Our parents laughed about it for years.
During my Junior High and High School summers, I was required to work at my Dad's company in the heart of un-air-conditioned, industrial Los Angeles. I was the switchboard operator vacation relief person. It was hot and miserable, but I would count the days until August 1st, and dream of being a beach rat again.
Ocean temperatures are the warmest in August. Corn and peaches are the sweetest. Tomatoes are the most delicious. The grunion are running. Life is good. Beaches are the best.
I never had to go back to school until AFTER Labor Day. I don't know what I would have done with out my August on the beach. Why did this change?
Our grandsons had to go back to school in Tucson on August 5 this year. As I write this it is still a 108 degrees in Tucson. Schools starting so early have a domino effect. Restaurants lose their summer workers, summer camps lose their counselors and have to close early, life guard stands at pools and beaches are empty. Why has this happened? Why is it OK to steal summer from kids? There ought to be a law. Whichever Presidential candidate vows to take August back gets my vote.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
NAM POW's Reunion
They said when they heard the B-52's fly over head, they knew they were going home. They had spent years in squalid captivity, but they never gave up and never gave in. Navy Commander Everett Alvarez, the first pilot to be shot down, was the longest held POW. He spent eight and a half gruesome years at the "Hanoi Hilton," where he was tortured and beaten. Today Everett is a member of the Board of Director's at the Richard Nixon Foundation. My husband, Ron Walker is Chairman of the Foundation, and the two long time friends collaborated on the 40th Anniversary Reunion held on the 23 and 24th of May, 2013.
As a special assistant to President Nixon, in charge of presidential travel, Ron was at the bottom of the ramp when the Vietnam POW's came home. That's when Ron and Everett met.
President Nixon wanted to celebrate their homecoming and he hosted a gala dinner for 1300 guests on the White House lawn. It is still the largest White House dinner ever held. Irving Berlin led the singing of his song, "God Bless America," Bob Hope was MC and Sammy Davis, Jr. performed. Everett got to sit next to John Wayne.
Forty years later the reunion took place at the Richard Nixon Presidential Library and Birthplace. The POW's and their families arrived in eight buses and were moved to see the crowds that lined the streets in Yorba Linda, waving flags and saluting. The California Highway Patrol provided an escort and so did fire trucks, police cars, and 100 Patriot Guard riders on motorcycles. The POW's toured a new exhibit that tells their story and then attended a solemn ceremony featuring military salutes, four fly-overs by MIG jets and War Bird CJ 6s. The grand finale was Robbie Britt singing the National Anthem, TAPS, and a 21 gun salute.
A happy moment came when Tony Orlando sang, "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" and the crowd sang every single word along with him. The young musicians in the 1st Marine Division Band from Camp Pendleton watched in amazement as the entire "older" audience sang along to a song they'd probably never heard before, but began clapping in time and in appreciation. The song had become a symbol of the joyous hostage homecoming, and the Gold Record it earned will become part of the Nixon Museum exhibit.
Tricia Nixon Cox, the president's older daughter, talked about the dinner at the White House, and how much it meant to her father. Ross Perot spoke too. The POW's love him. He worked for years and spent a lot of money in repeated attempts to set them free.
While I can't begin to imagine the bonding those men must feel for each other, it was emotional and heart warming to be in their midst. At the original dinner, a choir of the POW's sang a song they had written in prison, on toilet paper, to the tune of the Navy Hymn. They had to keep it hidden from the Viet Cong. Forty years later, we watched a black and white movie of their White House performance, and then the same men from that chorus got up and sang it again, in person. What a moment!
They have had other reunions over the years, but many expressed the opinion that this one was probably their last. Some are wheel chair bound and many walk with difficulty. They were proud to say they always include a place at the table for President Nixon. Retired U.S. Marine Capt. Orson Swindle, who spent six years as a prisoner, said, "He was a hero to us. He will always be revered by us as a group because he got us home."
I am proud to say that here in Oro Valley, Arizona, we have a wonderful Veteran's Initiative, chaired by Sandy Briney, wife of our Pastor, Jim. Along with their volunteers, they work hard to provide assistance to veterans, and their web site is full of good information and updated frequently. It would be nice if every town in America had something similar to offer our very deserving veterans.
As a special assistant to President Nixon, in charge of presidential travel, Ron was at the bottom of the ramp when the Vietnam POW's came home. That's when Ron and Everett met.
President Nixon wanted to celebrate their homecoming and he hosted a gala dinner for 1300 guests on the White House lawn. It is still the largest White House dinner ever held. Irving Berlin led the singing of his song, "God Bless America," Bob Hope was MC and Sammy Davis, Jr. performed. Everett got to sit next to John Wayne.
Forty years later the reunion took place at the Richard Nixon Presidential Library and Birthplace. The POW's and their families arrived in eight buses and were moved to see the crowds that lined the streets in Yorba Linda, waving flags and saluting. The California Highway Patrol provided an escort and so did fire trucks, police cars, and 100 Patriot Guard riders on motorcycles. The POW's toured a new exhibit that tells their story and then attended a solemn ceremony featuring military salutes, four fly-overs by MIG jets and War Bird CJ 6s. The grand finale was Robbie Britt singing the National Anthem, TAPS, and a 21 gun salute.
Patriot Guard Riders Salute the Arriving POW's
40th Anniversary Dinner at the Nixon Library
Tricia Nixon Cox, the president's older daughter, talked about the dinner at the White House, and how much it meant to her father. Ross Perot spoke too. The POW's love him. He worked for years and spent a lot of money in repeated attempts to set them free.
While I can't begin to imagine the bonding those men must feel for each other, it was emotional and heart warming to be in their midst. At the original dinner, a choir of the POW's sang a song they had written in prison, on toilet paper, to the tune of the Navy Hymn. They had to keep it hidden from the Viet Cong. Forty years later, we watched a black and white movie of their White House performance, and then the same men from that chorus got up and sang it again, in person. What a moment!
They have had other reunions over the years, but many expressed the opinion that this one was probably their last. Some are wheel chair bound and many walk with difficulty. They were proud to say they always include a place at the table for President Nixon. Retired U.S. Marine Capt. Orson Swindle, who spent six years as a prisoner, said, "He was a hero to us. He will always be revered by us as a group because he got us home."
I am proud to say that here in Oro Valley, Arizona, we have a wonderful Veteran's Initiative, chaired by Sandy Briney, wife of our Pastor, Jim. Along with their volunteers, they work hard to provide assistance to veterans, and their web site is full of good information and updated frequently. It would be nice if every town in America had something similar to offer our very deserving veterans.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Remembering Van Cliburn
Ron and I have just returned from Fort Worth, Texas where he was honored to be an Honorary Pall Bearer at the funeral of a true American Icon, Van Cliburn. We went with the knowledge that we were representing the Nixon Family and the Richard Nixon Presidential Foundation. Julie Nixon Eisenhower had a nice, long telephone conversation with Van just a few days before he died. How Ron came to be so honored is an amazing story:
After the difficult task of advancing President Richard Nixon's historic trip to the People's Republic of China in early 1972, Ron was soon dispatched to prepare for the President's trip to the Soviet Union. After the long flight, and a fitful night's sleep, Ron was surprised to find a marine guard right outside of his room. "What's going on,?" he asked the marine. "Sir, Ambassador Jake Beane is on his way to see you." Ron told him that he hadn't been in-country long enough to get in any trouble and the marine couldn't help the small smile that softened his face. He told Ron to look toward the elevators at the end of the hall. A group of armed KGB agents were guarding the elevator. Ron gulped when he saw them.
When the Ambassador arrived, he informed Ron that he and his entire party were under house arrest. Overnight, the President had mined Haiphong Harbor in Viet Nam. The Russians were not pleased. Ron was allowed to accompany the Ambassador to the Embassy, where the only secure phone was located. When he talked to Bob Haldeman, the President's Chief of Staff, he was assured that they didn't think the Russians would cancel the trip. "Easy for him to say," Ron thought, recalling all the stern looking KBG-types, with guns in their hands, up and down his hotel hallway, but he certainly hoped the trip would still happen.
In the meantime, a small dining room was set up on the top floor of the Rossyia hotel for the Americans. At the time, their hotel was the largest in the world, with over 1,000 rooms. Another American, staying in the hotel, was allowed to join the President's advance team for meals. He was already famous. In 1958 he had won the very first Tchaikovsky International Piano Competition for his rendition of the composer's Concerto No. 1. The contest had originated to highlight the Russia superiority in culture during this time when the Cold War was raging. The 23 year old Texan was so amazing in his talent and showmanship, that the audience could not stop praising him. He was mobbed by admirers and women reportedly fainted. The judges were stunned. They were worried about giving the prize to a non-Soviet musician, but they called Premier Nikita Khrushchev before announcing their decision. "Is he the best?" Khrushchev wanted to know. "Yes," he was told. "Then give him the prize." Van Cliburn returned home to a New York ticker tape parade, the only classical musician to ever receive such an honor.
In 1972, while Ron and Van were enjoying a meal together, Van told him he was very frustrated with the inefficiency of the Russian telephone system. He could not reach his mother. He did not like to miss a single day of talking to his mother. Ron talked to the White House Communications Agency (WHCA) staff person on the trip with him, and within a very short time, Van had a White House Signal phone in his room. Now he could talk to his mother whenever he wanted.
Van's devotion to his parents, especially his mother, was well known. Rildia Bee O'Bryan Cliburn had been his first piano teacher and the person he most wanted to please when he played. My cousin, Elizabeth Lucille (BettyLu) Fitch Ackerman was at the Julliard School of Music with Van. She recalls that he was always wearing a suit, always extremely polite and loved all things Tchaikovsky.
Ron asked Van if he would be available to perform at the reciprocal banquet they were having at Spaso House, the American ambassador's residence. Van quickly accepted. As it turned out, the President's talks with Breshnev, that resulted in the Salt agreements, went on forever. Van Cliburn didn't seem to mind the prolonged performance that resulted and his enchanted listeners didn't either.
Bill Henkel from the White House Advance Office remembers that they made sure that all the empty seats waiting for the President and Premier's parties were filled with staff from the embassy. Julie Rowe Cooke, also from the Advance Office recalls that she asked Mr. Cliburn what he planned to play? His answer was that he always started with the "Banner." And of course, he meant the Star Spangled Banner.
Van Cliburn plays the "Star Spangled Banner" at Spaso House.
Neither Van or Ron ever forgot how their friendship had bonded in a Russian hotel. They stayed in touch with each other over the years. Ron found out that Van had been diagnosed with bone cancer when he extended an invitation for him to attend the President's Gala Centennial celebration on January 9, 2013. He was devastated and checked on him often with his long-time friend, Tommy Smith. When Van died on February 27th, Tommy called and asked Ron to be an Honorary Pall Bearer.
When we got to the hotel, we were so surprised to find ourselves in the two-story, Van Cliburn Suite. It was complete with grand piano and pictures on the walls from Van's concerts and programs. We don't know why we were chosen to have that room, as there were other, very worthy and long time friends of Van's that we would soon meet. Again, we were honored. Van had performed for every American President since Harry Truman and we expected to see other Honorary Pall Bearers from the world of politics, but Ron was the only one.
The funeral, in Van's long time church, Broadway Baptist, was packed. A choir of over 300 voices, from several churches, and the Fort Worth symphony combined to produce the most beautiful music imaginable. The sound took your breath away and brought tears to your eyes. Van would have expected nothing less that the perfection we witnessed.
We especially would like to thank Tommy Smith for all he did to make us so welcome. Also, Mary Lou Falcone, Van's long-time publicist and her husband Nicky Zann for their friendship and kindness to us. Also, to Peter Rosen, President of Peter Rosen Productions. It was a pleasure to meet them and share such an outstanding celebration of a remarkable life.
The President and Mrs. Nixon thank Van Cliburn after his performance at the Reciprocal Banquet.
After the difficult task of advancing President Richard Nixon's historic trip to the People's Republic of China in early 1972, Ron was soon dispatched to prepare for the President's trip to the Soviet Union. After the long flight, and a fitful night's sleep, Ron was surprised to find a marine guard right outside of his room. "What's going on,?" he asked the marine. "Sir, Ambassador Jake Beane is on his way to see you." Ron told him that he hadn't been in-country long enough to get in any trouble and the marine couldn't help the small smile that softened his face. He told Ron to look toward the elevators at the end of the hall. A group of armed KGB agents were guarding the elevator. Ron gulped when he saw them.
When the Ambassador arrived, he informed Ron that he and his entire party were under house arrest. Overnight, the President had mined Haiphong Harbor in Viet Nam. The Russians were not pleased. Ron was allowed to accompany the Ambassador to the Embassy, where the only secure phone was located. When he talked to Bob Haldeman, the President's Chief of Staff, he was assured that they didn't think the Russians would cancel the trip. "Easy for him to say," Ron thought, recalling all the stern looking KBG-types, with guns in their hands, up and down his hotel hallway, but he certainly hoped the trip would still happen.
In the meantime, a small dining room was set up on the top floor of the Rossyia hotel for the Americans. At the time, their hotel was the largest in the world, with over 1,000 rooms. Another American, staying in the hotel, was allowed to join the President's advance team for meals. He was already famous. In 1958 he had won the very first Tchaikovsky International Piano Competition for his rendition of the composer's Concerto No. 1. The contest had originated to highlight the Russia superiority in culture during this time when the Cold War was raging. The 23 year old Texan was so amazing in his talent and showmanship, that the audience could not stop praising him. He was mobbed by admirers and women reportedly fainted. The judges were stunned. They were worried about giving the prize to a non-Soviet musician, but they called Premier Nikita Khrushchev before announcing their decision. "Is he the best?" Khrushchev wanted to know. "Yes," he was told. "Then give him the prize." Van Cliburn returned home to a New York ticker tape parade, the only classical musician to ever receive such an honor.
In 1972, while Ron and Van were enjoying a meal together, Van told him he was very frustrated with the inefficiency of the Russian telephone system. He could not reach his mother. He did not like to miss a single day of talking to his mother. Ron talked to the White House Communications Agency (WHCA) staff person on the trip with him, and within a very short time, Van had a White House Signal phone in his room. Now he could talk to his mother whenever he wanted.
Van's devotion to his parents, especially his mother, was well known. Rildia Bee O'Bryan Cliburn had been his first piano teacher and the person he most wanted to please when he played. My cousin, Elizabeth Lucille (BettyLu) Fitch Ackerman was at the Julliard School of Music with Van. She recalls that he was always wearing a suit, always extremely polite and loved all things Tchaikovsky.
Ron asked Van if he would be available to perform at the reciprocal banquet they were having at Spaso House, the American ambassador's residence. Van quickly accepted. As it turned out, the President's talks with Breshnev, that resulted in the Salt agreements, went on forever. Van Cliburn didn't seem to mind the prolonged performance that resulted and his enchanted listeners didn't either.
Bill Henkel from the White House Advance Office remembers that they made sure that all the empty seats waiting for the President and Premier's parties were filled with staff from the embassy. Julie Rowe Cooke, also from the Advance Office recalls that she asked Mr. Cliburn what he planned to play? His answer was that he always started with the "Banner." And of course, he meant the Star Spangled Banner.
Neither Van or Ron ever forgot how their friendship had bonded in a Russian hotel. They stayed in touch with each other over the years. Ron found out that Van had been diagnosed with bone cancer when he extended an invitation for him to attend the President's Gala Centennial celebration on January 9, 2013. He was devastated and checked on him often with his long-time friend, Tommy Smith. When Van died on February 27th, Tommy called and asked Ron to be an Honorary Pall Bearer.
When we got to the hotel, we were so surprised to find ourselves in the two-story, Van Cliburn Suite. It was complete with grand piano and pictures on the walls from Van's concerts and programs. We don't know why we were chosen to have that room, as there were other, very worthy and long time friends of Van's that we would soon meet. Again, we were honored. Van had performed for every American President since Harry Truman and we expected to see other Honorary Pall Bearers from the world of politics, but Ron was the only one.
The funeral, in Van's long time church, Broadway Baptist, was packed. A choir of over 300 voices, from several churches, and the Fort Worth symphony combined to produce the most beautiful music imaginable. The sound took your breath away and brought tears to your eyes. Van would have expected nothing less that the perfection we witnessed.
We especially would like to thank Tommy Smith for all he did to make us so welcome. Also, Mary Lou Falcone, Van's long-time publicist and her husband Nicky Zann for their friendship and kindness to us. Also, to Peter Rosen, President of Peter Rosen Productions. It was a pleasure to meet them and share such an outstanding celebration of a remarkable life.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Prayer Beads
I'm a fan of the UPPER ROOM and try to read the selection for each day. The last issue had a centerfold story about "Listening and Praying with Beads." It captured my imagination and I wanted to learn more.
I was facing another surgery for removal of cancer on my tongue and the idea of a helpful"crutch" in the form of beads was intriguing. The idea also reminded me of my dear father-in-law, Hugh Walker, who died way too early in 1984. He spent years working in the Middle East (which I'm sure contributed to his early demise) and "worry beads" were usually in his pocket and often in his hand. Oh how I wish I'd asked him more about how and why he used them so often. The dumb, busy, younger me, just never did. Ron says he doesn't remember talking to his father about his beads. Ron's sister, Jeanne said she never asked him either.
I learned that "worry beads" probably originated in India, but were commonly used in the Middle East. In Arab cultures, just about everyone carries the beads. During moments of worry, or contemplation, or prayer, people work the individual beads with their thumb and forefinger, strung on a string with slack, one at a time, in order to calm themselves, or in some cases, just to pass the time. They always have either 33 beads, or 99. For Christians, the 33 represents the 33 years of Jesus time on earth. The 99 beads represent the 33 years multiplied by the three-in-one: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. The Catholic Rosary was introduced during the 13th century and it has 50 beads to mark repetitions of the Hail Mary and five larger beads to count Our Father's. And no doubt, there are many more variations on the theme.
Our daughter Marja, a world class talent in all things creative, and I set out to put together a set of prayer beads. Our online research revealed that we needed something to represent God and another something to represent the user. In this case that was me. Then you can add as many beads as you want to remind you of specific prayers to include: I went through my jewelry and found some ancient treasures.
The talisman I chose to represent ME has a unique story. During World War II, living in Southern California (and I don't know where else in the U.S.) we had to wear ID tags. At night, we often heard planes overhead and sirens blaring to signal a mandatory black out. The idea was to turn off all the lights so the Japanese bombers wouldn't know they were over populated areas. My Dad was a volunteer air raid warden, and he would have to go out in the streets during the air raids and make sure no one had their lights on. My maternal grandfather painted the top of his outside light fixtures black, but his lights still shone down and I found it scary and appalling that he thought it was alright to cheat like that.
I wore my silver ID tag on a chain around my neck. It says, "Anne L. Collins, AT 2-7387" And on the back "184 So Kauffman Ave Temple City" It's dark, pretty beat up and the edges are wavy. And with good reason. One day my younger brother, Rob, and I were rough housing on the floor. (A big no-no as far as our mother was concerned) and I had him pinned good as I sat on his chest. He yanked at the chain around my neck and it broke. In a flash, he swallowed my ID tag. GULP! I can still remember the look of total shock and surprise on his face when he realized what had happened. Then I went running to tell our mother.
Our doctor wanted to make sure it didn't get stuck somewhere in Rob's person, and mother was told to "watch for it." Obviously, she found it, and it has lived in the corner of my jewelry box all these years. Now it is on my prayer beads, representing me.
To represent God, I chose a small, silver crucifix that my mother, the three little girls, and I found in an elevator in Williamsburg, Virginia in the early 1970's. We reported it to the desk at our hotel, but no one ever asked about it, and I have also kept it all these years. Now, it has been put back into use for that which it was originally intended. Nice, huh?
The rest of the beads represent the world, your blessings, your concerns, those you want to pray for, a time for listening, and anything else you may want to include. I particularly like the idea that there are no hard and fast rules, the possibilities are limitless and they provide structure to your prayer time.
I was facing another surgery for removal of cancer on my tongue and the idea of a helpful"crutch" in the form of beads was intriguing. The idea also reminded me of my dear father-in-law, Hugh Walker, who died way too early in 1984. He spent years working in the Middle East (which I'm sure contributed to his early demise) and "worry beads" were usually in his pocket and often in his hand. Oh how I wish I'd asked him more about how and why he used them so often. The dumb, busy, younger me, just never did. Ron says he doesn't remember talking to his father about his beads. Ron's sister, Jeanne said she never asked him either.
I learned that "worry beads" probably originated in India, but were commonly used in the Middle East. In Arab cultures, just about everyone carries the beads. During moments of worry, or contemplation, or prayer, people work the individual beads with their thumb and forefinger, strung on a string with slack, one at a time, in order to calm themselves, or in some cases, just to pass the time. They always have either 33 beads, or 99. For Christians, the 33 represents the 33 years of Jesus time on earth. The 99 beads represent the 33 years multiplied by the three-in-one: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. The Catholic Rosary was introduced during the 13th century and it has 50 beads to mark repetitions of the Hail Mary and five larger beads to count Our Father's. And no doubt, there are many more variations on the theme.
Our daughter Marja, a world class talent in all things creative, and I set out to put together a set of prayer beads. Our online research revealed that we needed something to represent God and another something to represent the user. In this case that was me. Then you can add as many beads as you want to remind you of specific prayers to include: I went through my jewelry and found some ancient treasures.
The talisman I chose to represent ME has a unique story. During World War II, living in Southern California (and I don't know where else in the U.S.) we had to wear ID tags. At night, we often heard planes overhead and sirens blaring to signal a mandatory black out. The idea was to turn off all the lights so the Japanese bombers wouldn't know they were over populated areas. My Dad was a volunteer air raid warden, and he would have to go out in the streets during the air raids and make sure no one had their lights on. My maternal grandfather painted the top of his outside light fixtures black, but his lights still shone down and I found it scary and appalling that he thought it was alright to cheat like that.
I wore my silver ID tag on a chain around my neck. It says, "Anne L. Collins, AT 2-7387" And on the back "184 So Kauffman Ave Temple City" It's dark, pretty beat up and the edges are wavy. And with good reason. One day my younger brother, Rob, and I were rough housing on the floor. (A big no-no as far as our mother was concerned) and I had him pinned good as I sat on his chest. He yanked at the chain around my neck and it broke. In a flash, he swallowed my ID tag. GULP! I can still remember the look of total shock and surprise on his face when he realized what had happened. Then I went running to tell our mother.
Our doctor wanted to make sure it didn't get stuck somewhere in Rob's person, and mother was told to "watch for it." Obviously, she found it, and it has lived in the corner of my jewelry box all these years. Now it is on my prayer beads, representing me.
To represent God, I chose a small, silver crucifix that my mother, the three little girls, and I found in an elevator in Williamsburg, Virginia in the early 1970's. We reported it to the desk at our hotel, but no one ever asked about it, and I have also kept it all these years. Now, it has been put back into use for that which it was originally intended. Nice, huh?
The rest of the beads represent the world, your blessings, your concerns, those you want to pray for, a time for listening, and anything else you may want to include. I particularly like the idea that there are no hard and fast rules, the possibilities are limitless and they provide structure to your prayer time.
My Prayer Beads
Update: I am blessed to report that they got all the cancer in my mouth and I do not have to face any additional treatments, beyond having my mouth checked on a regular basis. They had planned to take cuts and check them while keeping me under sedation, in case they had to go back for more. My mantra became "One and Done" and behold, it came to pass. The good Doctor, the prayer beads, all my prayer pals and some divine intervention are the reasons.
What a gift! Thank you to all who helped.
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