Jewel E. Whisenant: The Young Man Arose From the Dead

By Shirley Wetzel

Jewel Edward Whisenant, son of M. C. and Thula Whisenant, was born on April 29, 1918. He grew up in Dublin, Erath County, Texas. For his first two decades, he drifted, without a goal in life. Then, with World War II looming on the horizon, he enlisted in the Army. This decision changed his life forever. He trained to be a half-track driver in the Mojave Desert, and excelled in all he did. He was not a Christian, but while in training he became close friends with a young man who was, Allen Lee Jones. He admired Allen’s strong faith, but did not share it.

About that time, he had another life-changing event. He fell in love with Frances Stewart, also of Dublin. Her father wasn’t too happy about her choice, as Jewel had a reputation for being kind of wild, but love would not be denied. They were married in a beautiful ceremony, then moved up to Camp Kilmer, Pennsylvania, in 1942, where he had more training to prepare him for battle. She came from a Christian family, but religion wasn’t a big part of their life. She taught Jewel the only prayer she knew: “Now I lay me down to sleep…”

After he left for deployment, she saw a small steel-covered Bible in a shop window. She wasn’t sure whether to buy it, but she heard the voice of God telling her that if she didn’t, she’d never see him again. Finally she bought it, and mailed it to Jewel. She included a note: “May this book keep you from harm.” In the last mail call before boarding the ship for Europe, Jewel heard his name called. “Old Tex has a package!” He treasured that gift of love, and carried it in his breast pocket every day thereafter.

He arrived in England to await the invasion of Europe. On September 17, 1943, he was leading his men in a battle in an orchard in Belgium. There had been 70% casualties, including many officers, and he was promoted from Sergeant to acting Lieutenant. They were pinned down in a trench under heavy fire when replacements began coming in. One young man was cut down just a few feet from safety. He said “Sarg, I’m dying, send for the medics,” but nothing could be done. The mortally wounded soldier began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as he slipped away. Jewel said to himself that if God can give that young man such peace in battle and in death, that’s the God I want to serve. He gave his life to God that day. With new strength and resolve, he led his men out of the orchard, saying “follow me,” and they all did. He still carried that Bible next to his heart, with the list of the names of his men tucked inside.

January 3, 1944. During a fierce battle, Jewel was shot multiple times, in the left eye, the stomach, chest and leg. He was carried to the operating theater, and remembers nothing until he woke up in a large room, surrounded by bodies, with a tag on his toe. He saw a woman in white, and called “Nurse!” She replied, in shock, “Sergeant, what are you doing awake? You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Set me up, help me, my face hurts!” He had lost sight in his left eye, and had thirty-seven stitches in his face, but he was alive. The nurse pulled the Bible from his shirt pocket. A bullet was lodged in it; the steel jacket and the list of his men’s names had stopped it from penetrating his heart. The bullet stopped at Luke 7:12:

And it came to pass the day after, that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him, and much people. Now when he came near to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her. And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said to her, Weep not. …

And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.

And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.

The war was over for Jewel Whisenant. He went home to Dublin, to his mother and his beloved wife, and started a church. The Southside Baptist Church was the first of over a hundred he was to establish during his long career. He died on December 19, 2009, and the church was full of ministers he had trained and the many friends and loved ones whose lives he’d touched.

I am proud to say that he was my uncle, married to my mother’s baby sister Frances. There have never been two more kind, generous, courageous, and funny human beings on this earth. He was a hero on the battlefield and a hero in his life. Frances, who always referred to herself as his encourager, wrote a book about their years together. The title is, appropriately enough, The Encourager. If you’d like to learn more about Jewel and Frances Whisenant and their inspiring life, I recommend you read this book.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Encourager-Ministry-Whisenant-Companion/dp/1881825108

Sadness – my 52 year old niece Becky slipped into a diabetic coma and left us suddenly last spring. She was born profoundly deaf, and with neurological problems, and her life was not easy, but she loved life and her two beautiful children and her cats … sweet girl, I hope you passed into the arms of your Papa who loved you so, and got to meet the grandfather who died so long ago on a mountain in Wales, and all the others we miss down here.

I turned 66 in September and had to face the fact that I’m far beyond middle age now, unless people live to be 120. I started receiving my late ex-husband’s Social Security benefit as a Divorced Widow. It’s a few hundred more than mine. Don, I appreciate the extra $, but I’d far prefer for you to still be here.

Sept. 2, 1967

Do you know Baylor is about to get that Ph.D., and has turned out to be a terrific teacher? And to think we both warned him he was not cut out for the academic life! Guess he showed us! That makes me happy. Our oldest granddaughter just started college. Autism has never stopped her from being a spectacular young lady. She was asked to join the School of Engineering which thrills her engineer grandfather to no end. The twins are almost 17, smart, talented, well-mannered (thanks, Lisa) and total nerds like their dad, and now like me. I came to nerddom rather late, re-discovering Doctor Who a few years ago and falling madly for #10, David Tennant.

Ashley born Sept. 1, 1994

Amber and Autumn, Jan. 27, 1996

Just got back in touch with my dear Welsh friend, Steve Jones. He’s had some experience as a movie extra, and I’m trying to convince him to get a job on one of David’s projects so I can come over and meet him. Come on Steve, I know you can do it! And I am so happy to hear that after all these years the lovely Sabina has made an honest man of you! I do hope to see you both again, even if you don’t come through on my very reasonable request.

So, after years of counting the months, weeks and days until I reached retirement age, I decided not to retire after all. I’d spent a few months after foot surgery on house arrest, and I actually got tired of reading, watching tv, and doing nothing. I’d planned to write, but just couldn’t make the words flow. Since I couldn’t drive for much of that time, maybe it wasn’t a fair comparison to what retirement might bring, I still fear that if I do retire I will slowly vegetate, accomplishing nothing. More importantly, I wasn’t sure about the economy. I decided to keep working while I can, for another year or two anyway, and save the SS money to make some really nice trips.

Another thing is, if I’m a retiree, that officially means I’m old. I remember my mother, a couple of decades ago, telling a friend that she knew she wasn’t young any more, but in her head she still felt the same as she did when she was 38. Me, my head tells me I’m 43 … my body says otherwise.

Mortality rears its ugly head. I had a health issue last spring that is now under control, but could prove to be a Bad Thing eventually. I am in what, statistically speaking, should be the last 1/3 of my life, but because of that thing, and because I’ve seen so many people my age and younger leave this world too soon – well, we are not promised tomorrow. I wonder if my first-born son will forgive me for whatever it is he holds against me before I’m gone. I hope he does, for my sake and his. I know he will regret it if he waits too late, just as he did with his father. Son, I couldn’t love anyone more than I love you. Parents are human too, and young parents can make mistakes they regret when they become older and wiser. Jeff, my baby boy, I am so proud of you and you are my rock.

What else? The presidential horror show, where I watched the country I love tear itself apart, with an us and them mentality I can’t even believe. Facebook has been great for keeping in touch with friends and kin and getting to know family I’d never have met in real life. Thing is, we got along fine until this came up, then I discovered that I am a liberal, socialist commie pinko intellectual hippie atheist baby-murdering – oh, the list goes on. Just too sad.

More sadness, 20 little children were cut to pieces in a school massacre called Sandy Hook, and things turned even uglier. The first thought of many of my more conservative acquaintances was “Óh sh–t, Obama is going to take my guns away! ”Now I am a mild mannered, laid-back, calm, reasonable, open-minded librarian, but as time went by, I got branded as one of those who wanted to take their guns away, even though that was not what I said, and it is not what the president is saying.  Our country seems to be getting even farther divided and I don’t see any relief in the foreseeable future.

My guru Ma Jaya left her body last spring. I did not get to say goodbye. I have talked to her since then, so that’s okay. In October I went to the beautiful Berkshires for the Guthrie Center church concerts, reuniting with many of my dearest of dear friends in a soul-renewing week. Arlo did three incredible, uplifting, emotional shows, despite, or maybe in part because, his wife Jackie was fighting her last fight. His courage, and that of the rest of the Guthrie family, was indescribable, so I won’t even try to describe it. So much love and grace and strength. Jackie was the heart of the family, but she did her job so well they will be able to go on without her.

Now we’re back to Christmas, You know what happened then. Oh yes, the family home was finally sold, and all the years of memories had to be sorted through, divided up, and given away or, least favorite thing, discarded. No more family photos on the old front porch, but things hadn’t been the same since our own heart, my silver-haired daddy, joined the heavenly band on Dec. 24, 2009. Time marches on. For everything, there is a season …

Front porch Oct. 2009

And now it’s a new year. Blank slate, fresh start, let’s see what happens next.

The lovely and talented John Flynn

The songs resonates with me because I realize there are far more years behind me than there are ahead. I have lost one parent:

Sterling L. Hornsby Sept. 27, 1920-Dec. 24, 2009

My mother is 90 and a half, and I don’t think it will be long before I become a motherless child:

Velma Ruth Stewart Hornsby, April 2, 1921-

Mother and Dad lived for 40 years in the old house where they watched 3 generations grow up:

family on the porch

grandchildren, great-grandchildren, even great-great grandchildren:

T

Jan. 2010 DFW Cemetery

The time came when Mother could no longer stay in that old house:

Our experiment with sending her to live in a fancy “assisted living” facility didn’t work out. After a mistake with her medication that almost killed her, my sister Gwen took Mother home with her.

Mother's lonely new home

So now I find myself at the beginning of the end, although I hope it’ll be a long time before I get there. John’s song says “The journey of a single step can begin with a thousand miles.” Here was where I started:

Shirley Jean Hornsby Sept. 1946

I grew up, went to college, got married:

Sept. 2, 1967

We had kids:

Baylor and Mom Oct. 1971

Jeff and Mom, Bangkok, July 1973

Then we had some grandkids:

Ashley b. Sept. 1, 1994

Amber and Autumn, Jan. 27, 1996

We got divorced, but later became friends again. I had some adventures, did a lot of traveling, met some interesting people and some great friends, mostly because of Arlo Guthrie:

Shirley, Arlo & Annie Aug. 1989

"Matterhorn" in Okemah, Ok.

Guthrie Center Fall Revival - Blunderites all

Guthrie Center 1996

John Flynn and the Flynettes, Okemah WoodyFest

To quote John again, I’m thankful “for old friends you can count on, even though their ranks are thinning.”

Alasdair and Shirley, Macchu Picchu. Miss you always

Dennis Lachappelle, best bus driver and best friend anyone could ever ask for.

Goodbye, old friend

There are others I dearly miss: dear, sweet Jack Dultz, Gay, who will always be sitting at the front table at the church, Gerry Harper – your daughter grew up to be as wonderful as you were, sweetheart. So many friends and loved ones gone but never forgotten.

Our sons grew up:

Baylor and Jeff

Our granddaughters are teenagers!

So, what happens next? I need to work on that Bucket list – maybe finish the mystery I started writing many moons ago. I have continued to write and get published – here’s the launch of the latest anthology from the Final Twist, Oct. 2011:

Shirley at Murder by the Book

Chorus of The End of the Beginning” “Oh, the journey you make, from the first breath you take, to your last dying day, the mystery will take your breath away …”

Kris Kristofferson, who accompanies John on this song, has a song with a similar line:

From the rockin’ of the cradle to the rollin’ of the hearse, the going up was worth the comin’ down. I do believe he’s right. Journey on …

John Flynn

The title comes from a new song by my friend John Flynn, a very talented singer/songwriter and a fine human being. http://johnflynn.net

It resonates with me, because I realize, like it or not, there are far more years behind me than there are in front of me. I’ve lost one parent:

Sterling L. Hornsby Sept. 27, 1920-Dec. 24, 2009

My mother is 90 and a half, and I don’t think it will be long before I become a motherless child:

Velma Stewart Hornsby April 2, 1921-

When last I wrote, she was just leaving the old house where she and Dad lived for 40 years, watching grandchildren, great-grandchildren and even great-great grandchildren grew up:

leaving home

We had high hopes that she would be happy in the fancy “assisted living” facility where she was promised, and paid for, the full level of care. Being almost blind and deaf and in a wheelchair, she was helpless to do the simplest things. Even though my sister checked on her every day, and I made several visits, she did not get that wonderful care, and the staff did not help her find friends. One day my niece found her sprawled, unconscious, on her bed and asked the nurse to check on her – “Oh, she’s fine, she always sleeps like that-”  Terri insisted on having them check her blood sugar. It was 60. Any lower and she would have gone into a diabetic coma and died. Due to a reaction between a morphine shot she’d had at the ER after she fell and hurt her arm and a pain pill she took later, she came close to death. My sister came and took her home with her. She sits in her room, in her chair, listening to audio books. Sometimes I come and take her to the old house to go through all the stuff collected over a lifetime, and she rides her electric scooter through her garden, and that makes her happy – and sad. We are getting ready to sell the house now. A family with one-year old twins want to buy it – it’s a fixer-upper and they have skills and not much money, so it would be a good fit. Mother wants to know that another family will live there and love it like she did.

Thanksgiving was – well, she put it best, when my cousin called to ask about it -” pitiful.” Only my sister, brother, and niece were there, and the dinner was store-bought. Mother was horrified that the cornbread dressing had sugar in it. Horrors! My oldest niece wrote on FaceBook that it was the first time she could remember when we didn’t gather at Granny and PaPa’s house. Seems like when my dad died, the heart left our family. Mother declared that we WILL all gather there for one more Christmas, and I hope she gets that wish.

The end of the beginning … my sons are grown, I’m not likely to have any more grandchildren – but I do adore the three I have. I have wonderful friends, but some are not doing well and some have gone on to the next world. As John says, “old friends you can count on even though their ranks are thinning.” If I want to achieve the things on my Bucket List, I need to get busy.  “The journey of a step can begin with a thousand miles.” Here I go, taking that step. Maybe I should start with finishing that mystery I’ve been working on for … a good long while.

Book launch Oct. 2011

First off, my friends Loretta and Beverly and I went to New Braunfels to see Arlo Guthrie perform at Gruene Hall, one of the oldest dance halls in Texas.

Standing in line at Gruene Hall

The show was great. The lovely and talented Burns sisters, Arlo’s son Abe, and his band opened the show – for two hours!. Then Arlo came out and they all performed for another two hours! I met up with my Dallas friends Jay and Shelley, my dear friend Doris Judd, who I met at a writing workshop, and spent some quality time afterwards with The Burnsies, Jimmy LeFave, Kil.Ler, Arlo’s former bus driver, now an agent for musicians, based in Austin.

The Burns sisters, Jimmy LaFave, and Killer

Doris, Shirley and Jay - Gruene Hall

Arlo and Shirley Gruene Hall March 2011

Shelley, Killer and Shirley Gruene Hall

A good time was had by all. Next morning, the Three Musketeers traveled farther west to visit my friends Nancy and Tony Parker-Simons, who manage the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch, founded by Kinky Friedman. I’ve known them for several years, and two finer people cannot be found. We spent the afternoon talking, eating, laughing, touring the ranch, visiting with the animals, and laughing some more.

Beverly, Loretta, Shirley and Nancy at the Ranch

Tony Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch March 2011

Tony has become an excellent photographer. He showed us some postcards he’d made that were National Geographic quality. One took my breath away, literally – a hummingbird caught in mid-flight. He has an eye for capturing nature – plants, animals, and oh yeah, even people – he took some that made me look good, and that’s not easy to do!

Nancy in Outer Space March 2011

In addition to being a Fine Human Being and one of my long-lost sisters, Nancy is a story teller, a writer, and a kind and loving woman with a heart bigger than Texas. Do I love her? Indeed I do!

Reluctantly we said goodbye to Nancy and Tony and all the critters and made the long trip back to Houston. But the fun wasn’t over yet! The next Tuesday Loretta and I attended the opening of a new play, “Becoming Kinky” – the story of Kinky Friedman in three parts. It was truly a great show, and we bonded with the couple sitting next to us, Mark and Joyce, then got to visit with Kinky and his sidekick, Jeff Shelby, aka Little Jewford.

Shirley, Kinky, Loretta, McGonigels Mucky Duck March 2011

Loretta, Shirley, Little Jewford, Joyce, Mark, and Kinky

We closed the place down, and as we drove away I saw Kinky in a meditative mood – or was he just wishing Jeff would hurry up and take him home?

Kinky Friedman after the play - March 2011

The fun was over for awhile, and it was back to work. In my next installment, I’ll talk about my mother’s 90th birthday party, and update her status on the “assisted living” experiment. There will be some good parts and some awful parts … but for a few weeks, my world was full of friends and fun and Texas in the springtime.

Thomas Ervin Stewart - Sarah Elizabeth Davis

The children of T.E. and Sarah E. Stewart

Stewart 50th anniversary, 1955

Feb. 12, 2011 on the old porch

While the rest of the family took Mother’s furniture to her new home, I took her to Walmart’s – an outing she’d been asking for for ages. She said nobody ever had the time to take her, and she wanted to see things for herself, not have others just pick out something. In truth, she can’t really “see” much of anything, but it was the principle of the thing. I couldn’t put her on one of the scooters for the disabled, because I had visions of her plowing through the displays, mowing down anything in her path, so I pushed her in her wheelchair. We spent some time looking at the microwaves, trying to find one that she could work with minimal effort, and found one with numbers she could see. Then as we went through the towel section, she spotted a hot pink bathroom rug, and we bought that. I asked if she wanted the matching towel, but she said “no, then I’d need the hand towel, and the wash rag, and it’s just too expensive.” I will get that for her on my next visit, I can afford $20 and she loves pink.

When we got to the facility – I can’t bring myself to call it a home–nice as it is, it ain’t home. The furniture was arranged, but Mother decided it needed to be re-arranged.  She wanted her chair to be next to her window, so she could watch the comings and goings of the residents and their visitors, and maybe see a bird or two. When her world view became small because of her disabilities, my dad used to put birdseed and bread crumbs on a staircase outside her window at home, and she spent hours watching the antics of the birds and squirrels haggling over the food. We bought every variety of squirrel-proof bird feeder there is, but none of them worked for long. It tickled her to see how resourceful those squirrels could be. Now she watches the resident we have already named The Cigarette-Smoking Man, who drives himself outside every hour or so, wrapped in a blanket during those chilly days, stops by a pillar ten feet from her window, and lights up. We walked by him several times during the weekend, and he never smiled or even acknowledged our presence.

I stayed with her the first night. She was sick, and didn’t have to make the dreaded trip to the dining room while I was there. Neither of us slept much, but I didn’t hear her cry.  She’d told her niece she probably would, and I said it was okay to cry if she wanted to. She can cry without making a sound, so I don’t know if she did, but I did. Quietly. Next morning, she didn’t eat any breakfast, and she didn’t care for the coffee. My sister came around lunchtime with snacks, shower curtain, and other necessities, and I told Mother I had to go back to Houston. I’d told her at the beginning of the weekend I would be leaving Sunday, but she looked at me with sad eyes and said “I was hoping you could stay another day or two.” I explained again that I don’t have much vacation saved up. I didn’t say I was saving it for when the time comes that I’ll need to be there, the time when she takes that last journey.

It’s been almost two weeks now, and she still doesn’t have a telephone. I get my news from my nieces, my sister is too busy taking care of things. I heard that she complained that an old man had been grumpy with her at dinner – I wondered if it was the Cigarette -Smoking Man. I want to go see her this weekend, but I’ve promised her a 3 day trip to her hometown of Comanche to put flowers on her parents’ graves, and to Dublin to visit with her cousins, nieces and nephews. That trip from Houston to Dallas has gotten longer and harder on me physically and emotionally, but I will keep making it as often as I can.

Looking into the future

Shirley Jean Hornsby

The first time I had to leave my two-year old at day care, he wailed and hung on to me as tight as he could. A grandmotherly lady (she probably looked like I do know, but I was 30 and she looked very old) took him into her arms and sat in a rocking chair. She told me he’d be fine, and eventually he was, but I felt such guilt sending my baby into the care of strangers.

Jeff 1975

One of the hardest goodbyes took place the summer after my divorce was finalized. I went to Missouri to work on a dig, and my sons stayed with my parents. They came to Missouri to celebrate Jeff’s fifth birthday. Jeff wasn’t yet old enough to understand that things would never be the same after that summer, that something precious was broken, but his big brother did. The pictures are heart-breaking. Jeff is smiling, splashing in the swimming pool, giggling about the trick candles that wouldn’t go out. My dignified dad was wearing a party hat, but his face was solemn.  In one shot, I have my arms around the boys. Jeff is smiling, I am trying to smile, and Baylor looks  like he’ll never smile again. When it was time for them to go, he held on to me for so long my father finally had to gently pull him away. It took all my strength to get in my car and drive away, when my mind was screaming, “quit that job, take your sons, and go home,” but there was no going back.

Velma Ruth Stewart and Grandma Davis 1921

Now I am a grandmother, and my sons are all grown up, and I will be taking my mother away from her home of 41 years, trusting strangers to care for her. She is 89, closing fast on 90, and we all tried to honor her wish to remain at home until the end, but she is almost blind now, is a brittle diabetic, has congestive heart failure, and the list goes on. She knows she will be safe and well-cared for at the assisted living home – she’d better be, or the staff will answer to a very large and angry family.

PaPa surveying his kingdom

I’ve written about how my silver-haired daddy took care of her every need when she became so ill, even as he grew frail and his mind started wandering. We tried to get him to take it easy and let us help. I asked him “what will you do if you fall and break your leg, who will take care of Mama then?” He replied “I’ll take care of Mama even with my broken leg.” Then he did fall, and he broke his elbow, and the doctors couldn’t fix it, and through a series of hospital and nursing home neglect and error we lost him on Christmas Eve, 2009. For the first few months, family and friends and neighbors rallied around and stayed with Mother, fed her, managed her medications, but as always happens, the help gradually stopped showing up. Medicare sent a nurse and an aide after each hospitalization, and there have been many, but once she was “well” again that stopped. My brother, a disabled Vietnam vet, lives with her, and he tried as best he could to help, but it wasn’t enough.

We tried various ways of keeping Mother at home, hiring a housekeeper who didn’t last long, paying grandchildren to help, but things weren’t done the way Mother wanted them to be, and her needs were greater than they could manage. We had big yelling, screaming “family meetings”about what to do, and every person had a different idea. Mother just wanted to stay at home, but after burning herself badly two times trying to cook for herself – she is a stubborn lady! – her doctor said she couldn’t stay in the house  virtually alone, and she couldn’t afford care 24/7. Her nurses and I tried to talk about the good things about assisted living – she’d get all her meals and snacks served to her, she’d make friends, she’d get to go on field trips, there wouldn’t be any more stressful family meetings … She tried to be enthusiastic, then she’d say “I don’t want to live with all those strangers, I just want to crawl under the bed and stay there …”In her weary eyes I see myself all those years ago, begging just to let me stay home.

Tomorrow I will drive to Dallas to help Mother gather up the last of the special things she wants to bring to her new home, and Saturday the furniture will be moved  and she’ll get settled in. I can’t help with the physical aspects of the move, but I’ll try to help with the emotional side. I think I’ll take her out for breakfast, and then maybe an outing to Walmart, so that she doesn’t have to watch her world being dismantled and reassembled. She said she would try not to cry when she walks out the door, but I told her to cry all she wants to, I certainly will.

For the first time, she’ll be able to have photos of both her husbands on her walls:  2nd Lt. Hulbert H. Robertson, her first love, who died in WWII:

2nd Lt. Hulbert H. Robertson, 1943

Gwen at her father's grave, Cambridge American Cemetery

And my father, Sterling L. Hornsby. They celebrated their 65th anniversary in October, 2009 at that old house.

Sterling L. and Velma Ruth Hornsby, Gwen Robertson

Jan. 2010 Velma Hornsby with her second folded flag

CPO Sterling L. Hornsby

DFW National Cemetery

Several generations of our family gathered on that front porch through the years:

The Scoggins family

Front porch Oct. 2009

Gwen, Shirley, Velma, Gary, Sterling L. Hornsby

65th anniversary Velma Ruth Stewart Robertson Hornsby

Great granddaughters Lindsey Wiggins, Megan Scoggins, and Maddie Mansfield; Great-great grandtwins Gage and Clare Wiggins

MBTB has been my home away from home, my main source of a social life, the place where everybody knows my name … Carolyn Hart, one of the big names in mystery, had her first signing at the store, and one of her series features a book store based on MBTB. Lee Child, writer of the wonderful Jack Reacher thrillers, is long past the stage where he needs to do any touring to promote his books, but he makes a point of coming to the store with each new book. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of stories like that. The whole staff is wonderful, but David is the one who livened up the room and warmed the heart of everyone who ever met him.

A few years back, a lovely redhead named McKenna Jordan joined the staff. It took me awhile to figure out their relationship – David could get irritated and frustrated, and he often took it out on McKenna. She dished it right back. I figured they either hated each other or were in love. They were married in a Scottish castle two years ago.

My aunt told me what happened when my mother became a widow at age twenty-two. Her first husband died in WWII, leaving her with a little girl not quite two years old. When Mother got the dreaded yellow telegram, she walked home from the post office, handed it to her sister, and shut herself in her room. For two weeks she sat in a chair, not eating, not sleeping, not speaking. I know she is grieving for my father, who died last Christmas, but he was 89 and they’d spent 65 years together.

I’m editing this bit to explain why I mentioned my mother’s widowhood. The morning of my father’s funeral, her granddaughter asked her which was more difficult, to lose a husband so young, after just a few years of marriage, or to lose one after so many years together. Mother didn’t really have an answer – she said she’s always wondered what life would have been had her first husband lived to a ripe old age, but she knew she would miss Dad after so many years of marriage. I know what she felt in her heart, though. She did, and does, grieve for my father, but it is not the soul-shattering pain she felt so many years ago when that yellow telegram came.

McKenna and David should have had another 50 years to carry out all their plans and dreams. Life is not fair. We are not promised that it will be, but things like this are so very wrong and sad, and my heart breaks for all of David’s family, but most of all for McKenna.

I don’t know what else to say, so I’ll turn to my stash of quotes and poetry to end this post.

Lawrence Binyon wrote a poem called The Fallen for the British soldiers who gave their all in the Great War. I have adapted it slightly:

He shall not grow old

As those who are left grow old.

Age shall not weary him,

Nor the years condemn

At the going down of the sun

And in the morning

We will remember him

David Harkins wrote these words:

“You can shed tears that he is gone, or you can smile because he has lived…”

Dear David, I am both smiling and shedding tears. I hope there is a big bookstore in Heaven, where you can guide the other angels to books they will like, and maybe even send spiritual encouragement to writers on earth who might need a little help in writing their books. Here’s a hint – me You can have long discussions with all the writers you’ve admired, those already there and those to come, and you will make Heaven a much brighter place to be. I will miss you always, and whenever I look at my Tigger doll, I will think of you.  All of us will do our best to support and comfort your beloved McKenna and your other loved ones, and we will shamelessly spoil Jack, who must be wondering where you are. Goodbye, my friend, you will be greatly missed. And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

That caused me to wonder “why me?” I have gained weight in the last 15 years, but most of my family are as large or larger. I exercised, until I couldn’t handle it any more, I never smoked, never did illegal drugs, have a fairly healthy diet, good blood pressure, but I’ve got a progressive health condition for which there is no cure except a lung transplant, and nobody else in my family has this. Why me? Why not me? Is it genetic, or does it have something to do with the miracle diet drug combination that was all the rage 15 years ago – until people starting have problems with enlarged hearts and other inconvenient side effects. I got checked, my heart was fine, no harm, no foul, and no weight lose.  When I began researching my health problems, guess what popped up in the adds for lawyers in the sidebar – yes, that drug combo is rearing its ugly head again. People who took the combo as long as 15 years ago have developed primary pulmonary hypertension, among other things. I have to try to get my doctor’s attention to find out if that’s the kind I have – and if it is, I might get a settlement from the drug company, but I might not live long enough to spend it. If my granddaughter happens to read this – DON’T WORRY! This is probably not the kind I have. My mother has similar issues and a lot of other health problems I don’t have, and she is 89. She feels like hell most of the time, but she’s still here, and at least her mind is sharp, even though her body is shot. My doctor assure me there are new drugs in the testing stage, new treatments, we’ve caught the problems fairly early, time is on my side.  But listen, I’ve had symptoms of both conditions for years, but when I told my doctors, they just blew me off. I was fat and out of shape but otherwise they found nothing wrong. Be your own advocate, you know your own body, insist on being taken seriously when you think there’s a problem.

It sucks to realize I may be disabled within the next decade, or maybe the next 2 years. My new reality is that I will have to lug a heavy oxygen bottle around when I “exert” myself – i.e. walk more than 5 minutes, do housecleaning,  go to the mall … Doctors can diagnosis these things, but as my friend Connie, who has COPD and a long history of dealing with the medical profession, tells me, they don’t tell you how to deal with what comes next. After I had a lung catherization that showed no blood clot after all, the nurse called me to tell me to “keep doing what you’ve been doing!” with a big smile in her voice. Doing what I’ve been doing hasn’t helped, the breathing problems just keep getting worse.  I’m trying to hope for the best but prepare for the worst, getting my affairs in order, trying not to let my mother know how serious my condition is becoming, learning how to navigate my world with a heavy oxygen bottle strapped over my shoulder, thinking it may be time to ask for a handicapped hang tag because I can’t walk up my stairs without gasping for breath.

My new reality – I had planned to travel after I retire in 2 years, but the rules and regulations involved in flying when you’re oxygen-dependent are mind-boggling. I have begun knocking items off my bucket list – I’ll probably never return to Thailand, never see Angor Wat, maybe soon I won’t be able to go to western Massachusetts for Arlo’s October concerts … Will I be around to see what my brilliant granddaughters become, will I be able to go to their weddings, hold their children? This sucks, did I mention that? Time will tell …

My other new reality – I’ve had my first Christmas as a fatherless child, the first Father’s Day with no one to send a card to, no one to call me his baby girl. I’ve had the first Memorial Day when I visited my dad and talked to a carved headstone. There’s a quote I think about by Mark Halliday in Keep this : “Everybody’s father dies  But when my father died, it was my father.” I can say now that my father died last Christmas Eve, and I can believe it and accept it, but when I remember how his last minutes on earth were spent choking and gasping for air because a medical “professional” gave an unconscious man who couldn’t swallow a dose of liquid medicine, well, that anger is still with me, as well as my anger over the lawyers who said we had no case because he was so old his life had no value, legally speaking.

I’ve learned that now that he’s gone, some members of the family are not treating Mother the way he treated her, with love and respect, taking care of her until his frail body gave out. Her last months, or weeks, or days are not peaceful, her very large extended family are not flocking around her, and I have tried to make things better but I’m too far away and it’s breaking my heart. Here is a woman who devoted her life to her family being ignored, neglected, or treated as a nuisance. How can that be?  Gotta stop now, my eyes are leaking …

Well, I think I’ll end this now. It’s taken me a long time to put the words on the screen. Isn’t there a quote about “misery shared is misery halved”? I feel better now.

Aug. 5, 2010. I’m feeling better today, physically and emotionally, and I’m ready to add the part where there’s Light at the End of the Tunnel, and It’s Not a Freight Train, Every Cloud has a Silver Lining, Into Every Life a Little Rain Must Fall … I was thinking of a song Pete Seeger, one of my personal heroes, wrote years ago about aging. Pete’s in his 90′s now and still going strong, BTW.  The chorus is

“How do I know my youth is all spent? My get up and go has got up and went.

But in spite of it all, I’m able to grin, when I think of the places my get up has been.”

I have been to far away places with strange-sounding names that most people only dream  about -  China, Siam (Thailand), the Philippines, Taiwan, Cambodia, Turkey, Peru, Nicaragua, Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras,  England, Scotland, Wales …and I almost forgot the Arlo Guthrie Blundering through the Alps tour that sent my life in a whole new direction – Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Italy …

Copper Canyon, Mexico

Shirley, Arlo & Annie in front of the Matterhorn

I have worked on archeological excavations in some of those places, even though I never finished that dissertation.

I had wonderful parents, and my dad lived to the ripe old age of 89, and my mother is 89 aiming for 90. I have known love, even if it wasn’t forever, and I have two sons I adore, and four granddaughters any grandmother would be proud to claim.

I’ve done some writing that got published, and even got praised. I’ve got a job I enjoy, and I’m not likely to lose it before I reach retirement age, and I have good health insurance. Way too many Americans don’t have that security these days.

I’ve followed a different path than I’d thought I would, way back in my youth, and it’s been interesting and exciting and sometimes strange, but rarely dull. I’ve met some wonderful people, some famous, most not, who have become great friends. You know who you are, and I want to tell you how much your support and love and strength has meant to me through the years, through the good times and the hard times, and I know you will be there for me in the unforeseeable future, come what may. I might have a lot of years left, there may be a miracle cure in somebody’s lab at this very minute, or maybe not.  Whatever happens, I’ll still be able to look back and grin, when I think of the places my get up has been.

Latest news from my friend Connie, who keeps up with this stuff:

“Potential Treatment for Pulmonary Hypertension Discovered ScienceDaily (Aug. 11, 2010) — Researchers in the Faculty of Medicine & Dentistry at the University of Alberta are one step closer to a treatment for pulmonary arterial hypertension, a potentially deadly disease. Pulmonary arterial hypertension, which is high blood pressure in the lungs, currently has only a few treatment options, but most cases lead to premature death. It is caused by a cancer-like excessive growth of cells in the wall of the lung blood vessels. It causes the lumen, the path where blood travels, to constrict putting pressure on the right ventricle of the heart which eventually leads to heart failure. Evangelos Michelakis, his graduate student Gopinath Sutendra and a group of collaborators have found that this excessive cell growth can be reversed by targeting the mitochondria of the cell, which control metabolism of the cell and initiate cell death. By using dichloroacetate (DCA) or Trimetazidine (TMZ), mitochondria targeted drugs, the activity of the mitochondria increases which helps induce cell death and regresses pulmonary hypertension in an animal model, says Sutendra. Current therapies only look at dilating the constricted vessels rather than regression, so this is a very exciting advancement for the lab. “In the pulmonary hypertension field they’re really looking for new therapies to regress the disease, it might be the wave of the future,” said Sutendra. “The other thing that is really exciting is that TMZ and DCA have been used clinically in patients so it’s something that can be used right away in these patients.” Clinical trials are expected to be the next step. Michelakis is currently working with a college in the United Kingdom to have patients with pulmonary hypertension take DCA.”

Several months ago I saw an article in the Comanche Chief about the Cunningham family, who had a special Texas Rangers Cross ceremony for the five members of their family who had been Texas Rangers. I looked up the link to the Former Texas Rangers Association and saw that any former Texas Ranger could be so honored. I told my family about it, and we all agreed we should get a cross for our Texas Ranger ancestor. Then they all agreed I could be in charge. What does that always happen? I don’t mind, really. I dug into the research – my cousins Virginia, Betty and Mary Hart had already done the hard part, gathering the official documents that proved he was a Ranger, and pretty soon that cross showed up at my door. Now to plan the ceremony … I saw examples of elaborate ceremonies with people in period dress, men on horseback in buckskins, color guards … those were all wonderful and meaningful to the families, but I knew we had to get ours done fairly soon – Mother is at 89, and her health is not improving, so maybe she would be here in the fall when it’s cooler, or maybe not. She is the oldest living descendant of the line of Elisha E. Stewart & Ruth Wilkinson — James Isaac Stewart and Winfred Adeline Harman–and Thomas Ervin (sic) Stewart and Sarah Elizabeth Davis, and she knows how proud her father was of his grandfather, and she had to be there, so on July 25 a herd of Stewarts, including one descended from another of Elisha’s sons, who drove from Arizona to be there, showed up at the Salado Cemetery, Salado, Texas, to honor our hero. We’d been assigned our own retired Ranger, Capt. Carl Weathers, to participate in the ceremony and help as needed, and he and his friend Capt. Jack Morton helped way beyond the call of duty by digging the hole for the cross through 3 feet of rock.

Capt. Jack Morton and Capt. Carl Weathers, retired Texas Rangers and mighty fine men

Elisha and Ruth Stewart, Addie Harman Stewart, her infant "Buddy"

Here’s part of our Stewart clan:

Part of the Stewart Clan honoring Texas Ranger Elisha E. Stewart

Our ceremony was short and simple, befitting the heat and the wishes of our family. My cousin, Rev. Mike Whisenant, opened with a prayer. I talked about Elisha and his family, then Capt. Weathers explained the purpose of the FTRA and told how the men of Capt. Ford’s Old Company paved the way for the Rangers who followed them. I read a quote from Capt. Ford’s memoirs talking about the bravery and honor of his men, and what fine citizens they’d all turned out to be. Capt. Weathers then read the Texas Ranger Prayer:

Texas Ranger Prayer

Finally, my mother and Christi Stewart-Trenhaile, a descendant of Elisha and Ruth’s son William Melvin, unveiled the cross:

Velma Ruth Stewart Hornsby and Christi Stewart-Trenhaile

It was a moving and emotional time for us, but the best part was sharing our story with representatives from the Bell County Historical Society, the Chamber of Commerce, the Salado Village Voice editor, the head of the cemetery board, and other local dignitaries, and getting to know some new kinfolks and catch up with the ones we already knew. And I got to hang around with several heroes:

Me and my heroes

Left to right: Capt. Jack Morton, Capt. John Aycock, Capt. Carl Weathers, Shirley Wetzel, Frank Irions Sr., U.S. Army ret.

Beth Stewart, Stephanie Ponder, Tawna Stewart Ward

The Stewart family and friends

Our story in the Comanche Chief, Comanche, Texas

Texas Ranger Cross for 3rd Sgt. Elisha E. Stewart, 1825-1900