Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
THE BOYS OF IWO JIMA
This story has been circulating around the Internet since it was written in 2000. It was written by Michael T. Powers, who is also an author with stories in 29 inspirational books including many in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series and his own entitled: Heart Touchers "Life-Changing Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter." To preview his book or to join the thousands of world wide readers on his inspirational e-mail list, visit: http://www.HeartTouchers.com.
On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave men raising the American flag at the top of Mount Surabachi on the Island of Iwo Jima, Japan during WW II. Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "What's your name and where are you guys from?
I told him that my name was Michael Powers and that we were from Clinton, Wisconsin.
"Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too! Come gather around Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story."
James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, D.C. to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say good-night to his dad, who had previously passed away, but whose image is part of the statue. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C. but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night. When all had gathered around he reverently began to speak. Here are his words from that night:
"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me. Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game, a game called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game. Harlon, at the age of twenty-one, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out; I say that because there are generals who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old. (He pointed to the statue)
You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken, and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph. A photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection, because he was scared. He was eighteen years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.
The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already twenty-four. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, "Let's go kill the enemy" or "Let's die for our country." He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, "You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers."
The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, "You're a hero." He told reporters, "How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only twenty-seven of us walked off alive?"
So you take your class at school. 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only twenty-seven of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of thirty-two, ten years after this picture was taken.
The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, "Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epson salts. Those cows crapped all night."
Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of nineteen. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.
The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Kronkite's producers, or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, "No, I'm sorry sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back."
My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually he was sitting right there at the table eating his Campbell's soup, but we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press. You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died, and when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.
When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, "I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. DID NOT come back."
So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."
Suddenly the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero in his own eyes, but a hero nonetheless.
THE BOYS OF IWO JIMA
Each year my video production company is hired to go to Washington, D.C. with the eighth grade class from Clinton, Wisconsin where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation's capitol, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.
On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave men raising the American flag at the top of Mount Surabachi on the Island of Iwo Jima, Japan during WW II. Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "What's your name and where are you guys from?
I told him that my name was Michael Powers and that we were from Clinton, Wisconsin.
"Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too! Come gather around Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story."
James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, D.C. to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say good-night to his dad, who had previously passed away, but whose image is part of the statue. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C. but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night. When all had gathered around he reverently began to speak. Here are his words from that night:
"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me. Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game, a game called "War." But it didn't turn out to be a game. Harlon, at the age of twenty-one, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out; I say that because there are generals who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old. (He pointed to the statue)
You see this next guy? That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken, and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph. A photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection, because he was scared. He was eighteen years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.
The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already twenty-four. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, "Let's go kill the enemy" or "Let's die for our country." He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, "You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers."
The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, "You're a hero." He told reporters, "How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only twenty-seven of us walked off alive?"
So you take your class at school. 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only twenty-seven of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of thirty-two, ten years after this picture was taken.
The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, "Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epson salts. Those cows crapped all night."
Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of nineteen. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.
The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Kronkite's producers, or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, "No, I'm sorry sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back."
My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually he was sitting right there at the table eating his Campbell's soup, but we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press. You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died, and when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.
When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, "I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. DID NOT come back."
So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."
Suddenly the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero in his own eyes, but a hero nonetheless.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
CHEATING ON YOUR HAIRDRESSER
Ask a question, you'll generally get an answer. Depending on whom you pose your question to, you may or may not like the answer you get.Ask a friend, "Does my hair look okay?" and 95% of the time they will reply favorably, even if doing so requires them to suspend disbelief for a moment or two whilst the dig deep for something kind to say. But pose that question to a stylist and the answer may cost you severely--in time, self-esteem and moolah.
I remember the days when I'd hit the salon every six months or so for a trim. I'd ask the same opening question every time. "Do I have enough gray to start coloring my hair yet?" I'd ask because I always loved the answer. A resounding, "Oh, no! You barely have any gray at all." I tipped her extra just for that.
I don't know when I turned the corner. It could have been after Tom's heart attack, or after my dad's passing. All I know is that one day I sat in that chair and posed my favorite question for the last time. Why? Because this was her answer. "Oh yeah. . . we really need to do something about this. . ." Sorrow. . . And thus we upped our client/stylist relationship to a whole new level.
Now here's the funny thing. In this relationship, as in all relationships, there are rules of trust. The rule of hair? It isn't just yours anymore. Oh no. It's hers. She knows it, and you know it. My daughter-in-law's friend gave me highlights once when I was out of town. The next time I saw my stylist she noted, "Nice color. . ." in a voice that begged further explanation. I felt as if I had given the promised half of my Snickers bar to someone else. I also remember the time I was going to be on a three-week book tour. My hair was fine that day, but I knew I might need a touch-up near the end, so I asked her for my coloring formula. Bad idea. . . She raised one eyebrow at me and stalled, a look of betrayal on her face. I could hear her silent condemnation. "Cheater! Hair cheater!!!! Babbling explanations began pouring out of me.
She does give a great cut and color, though I wonder how she really views me, since her consummate choice of styles for me lies somewhere between Tina Turner's "Proud Mary" and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" periods. Sometimes I sit in her chair and my eyes begin to stray to some dazzling highlights the new girl in the shop is giving a client off in a corner. I know I shouldn't stray . . . that I will suffering remorse and pain for my wanderings, but sometimes, I still do. In a moment of weakness, I swing my chair slightly and peek above the top of my Better Homes and Gardens to catch just one more hungry glimpse and then. when my stylist has turned me over to the protective custody of the shampoo girl, I bribe her with a Rolo in return for the other operator's name and schedule.
Does it all sound a little crazy? Ask any woman if I'm telling the truth. Hey! It's a tough hair world out there.
Monday, April 6, 2009
A PERFECT DAY
Despite thick clouds and a killer head cold, this is still a perfect day. The Stock Market lost it's grip on my happiness and security, and CNN can't hold my peace of mind hostage today. And why, you ask? Because, as I predicted last Friday, my heart is still reverberating with messages of hope and peace after watching the Spring Conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.It may sound simplistic to some, but I know that God intended us to be happy despite adversity. Perhaps especially during it. And knowing that we have a Heavenly Father and a Savior who loves and knows us makes all society's nay saying and hand wringing mere annoyances.
Are things bad? Looks like it. But there is help. And there is a Plan. There always has been, and this weekend we saw portions critical for our time unfolded. Over thirty inspired voices offered hope by reciting the Lord's promises and by reminding us of ours.
For me, the counsel fell into a few simple categories:
1. Hard times are here and harder times may yet come, but we can endure happily if we get out of debt and curb our wants.
2. We will need to help one another, and that includes sharing the Gospel message of hope in Christ with others.
3. Take refuge in places of peace--the Lord's holy Temples, and in our homes.
I hope you'll enjoy the clip, posted below, on why Mormons build temples. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. If I can't help you, I'll help you find the answer. Remember, joy is the goal.
Friday, April 3, 2009
WISDOM FROM FOOTBALL AND WAR
Vince Lombardi is credited with saying, "Fatigue makes cowards of us all." The same words have also been credited to General George Patton. Irregardless, the truth remains that if manly men of football and war know that fatigue can break our spirits and cause us to cower, we can admit it too.We've all had those days when the laundry list of life overwhelms us and instead of beginning at the top and working through it, we slump in a chair and whimper, unable to organize our thoughts enough to even choose where to start.
I remember day five of a siege of illness that plagued our family. The laundry backed up with fetid linen--the refuse of the children's illness--the dishes were piled like Mount Vesuvius and you could have turned my stove top into a Science Fair contender. Still, meals needed to be prepared and well-intended classmates kept stuffing make-up work through the doorway, despite my complete disinterest in participles, dangling or otherwise. It had been days since I had had more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep, and REM was a distant memory.How did I handle it? I sat in a chair and stared at the greasy water marks running down the front of the sink cabinet, the residual by-product of the well-est of the children's attempts to do the dishes. . . and then, good soldier that I am, I cried.
Tom was out of town as I recall, but other help was available. It almost always is, but I was too stubborn or proud to ask. And so, determined to stay in the pocket, to march on, I wore myself to a frazzle. I'm two decades older now, and I'm still that way to a degree. I'm buried by obligations right now and pressed against a wall of deadlines, but experience and wisdom have taught me to recognize when it's time to accept proffered help. And help is coming in abundance this weekend.
It's Conference weekend for members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I will sit and listen to the voices of modern day apostles and prophets of God, and feel the Lord's peace. And next week? Some of the things I pushed back today will still be there, but they'll concern me less. I'll remember what few things really matter, and I'll be still and remember that God is ultimately in charge.
Sometimes we get ourselves into trouble. But sometimes stuff just happens. Stuff is happening to a lot of people these days, but help is still at the ready, if we will accept it. Comfort? Peace? Could you use some of that? Then push the debris back for a few hours, and come listen with me. Their counsel isn't just for Mormons. It's for anyone hungering for a pocket of quiet and hope in the storm.
(Links above for internet feed. Also available on Directv 374, Sat and Sun- 10-12 Mountain , 12-2 Eastern; 2-4 Mountain, 4-6 Eastern.)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
THE OTHER HARVEST AT THE TABLE
Bill O'Reilly of Fox's "The O'Reilly Factor" offered some sage advice today while appearing as a guest on the Rachel Ray Show. It wasn't anything new . . . well, at least not to most parents, but in our race-around world, it bears repeating.When asked for his best advice on parenting, O'Reilly, a former high school teacher, lamented the amount of time our kids, (and the rest of us) spend on electronic devices today. He fears we are losing the art of face-to-face interaction. His remedy? Corral them at the dinner table, and then pose what may be the best question of their day. "Tell me . . . what was the most important thing that happened to you today." And really care.
It brought back sweet memories of four loud, little Lewises all rambling over one another in their haste to divulge the day's mystique. As they grew older and their schedules became increasingly hectic--off to Seminary at 5:45 a.m., ball practice until 6:00 p.m.--we struggled to get all our assorted faces at the table at the same time. It increased our appreciation of the Sabbath when we pushed everything else away, and made us double our efforts to set aside more family time for games, family movie nights and FHE.
The idea of corralling our loved ones for family dinner may, in and of itself, require some creative rethinking, but the benefits of this eroding tradition are critical and well documented. Now imagine coupling family meals with this simple but profoundly introspective question. Such an investment could skyrocket a child's sagging self-esteem and lead to better understanding and communication all around.
O'Reilly noted that we should be prepared for repercussions. Older children may retreat at first, and the idea of sharing on such a personal level may not come easily, but if we are consistent, and better yet, if we start early and establish this pattern, a wonderful new closeness will develop that can only serve to bless our families.
But it shouldn't stop there. Imagine how spouses would respond to such a heartfelt, sincere investment in them. "Tell me, honey . . . what was the most important thing that happened to you today?"
I'm cringing here as I think of how the sacred dinner routine has changed for us since the kids left home. Too often we eat at the counter--he sits, I stand--as we peruse the day's mail. Sometimes we actually meet at the table, but it's too infrequent. We can do better. We can see the dinner table as a family place no matter our number and age, and we can pose this sweet question to our loved one and wait with complete interest for their reply. We can do this!
Let's try it out and leave a comment. I will too!
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