For The Love of Kathy

by Frank Beresheim

          I went to my bedroom,  sat down in my single bed.  I stared up at the ceiling and nursed the beer I was drinking.  I often thought of Kathy her long red hair, freckles, blue eyes and a smile that could light the sky.  Those were the times of my life, always believed she was the one.  We always had fun together, we liked the same foods, music, she played keyboards and I played guitar, walks through the city, long bike rides.  We had a lot of fun riding around in my old white Cadillac.  She was always happy until my drinking got worse, and she left me, with the saddest face I had ever seen.  I finished my cigarette, put the butt in the can, and got ready for bed.

          I laid down and closed my eyes and I wound up in Crazy Charlie’s Bar and grill.  Charlie’s was one of the most unique bars I had ever had the privilege to drink at.  It had a coffin nailed to the ceiling along with many other things, like a violin, several women’s garters, funky glasses, an old wooden tool box, including hundred of more items.  I looked in the dining room, and saw the tables with the butcher paper across the table, and crayons.  I remember going in there many times with Kathy.  We had fun writing on the paper, drawing pictures, and was reminded that this was where I first told her that I loved her. I wrote I love you in all in red, in a red heart.  When she first saw it, she appeared to be shocked, but did not reciprocate it.  I remember thinking, maybe she doesn’t really like me.  I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I walked by her, she grabbed me by the waist and rose up to greet me with a kiss.  She looked me straight in the eye and said “I love you” right out loud, followed by a big kiss.  I said I would be right back, and headed for the bathroom.  I used the facilities and when I washed my hands I looked up at the mirror and mouthed the words she said "I love you",  I felt like the greatest man in the world, she loves me.  We ate our dinner and went back to her place, spent the night loving each other. 

CLICK HERE to Continue. 

 Frank Beresheim was born in New York City in 1959 and  moved to the Catskill Mountains as a child, returning to Queens at age 16, where he began writing poetry and playing music.  Married in 1988, Frank found his way back to the Catskills and never looked back.  He lives with his wife and two teenaged sons in the friendly community of Saugerties, NY.

On The Trail of Laura Ingalls Wilder

"The Stove," a real luxury item back then.

 

by Delores Miller

When our five children were small, one of the first joint gifts Santa Claus laid under the

Christmas tree was the complete set of Little House On The Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder. All read the books many times, until they became tattered and torn. Now, 35 years later the eleven grandchildren are reading the same books. I read this collection in 1945 when the Wisconsin Library sent boxes of books to our small country school.

Among the titles are Little House in the Big Woods, set in Pepin, Wisconsin where Laura was born in 1867. Little House on the Prairie depicts journeys in a covered wagon,  Farmer Boy, set in New York where Laura's husband Alonzo spent his childhood.  On the Banks of Plum Creek, set in Walnut Grove, Minnesota.  Long Winter was set in DeSmet, South Dakota. Russ read this often, and when we had a blizzard, he wanted to string a rope to the barn like Laura's Father had to do.  By The Shores of Silver Lake, took place a railroad surveyor's shack in DeSmet. Laura married Alonzo in 1885 and The First Four Years recalls when they lived on a tree claim before moving to Mansfield, Missouri

Now that travel is more convenient, we visit the historical sites mentioned in Laura's books: Pepin, Wisconsin; Walnut Grove, Minnesota; Mansfield, Missouri and DeSmet, South Dakota. Historical societies have put on pageants and plays depicting the books.

Laura Ingalls Wilder began writing her books in 1932 when she was 65 years old. Maybe there is hope for Delores to write commercially yet. Laura died in 1957 in Mansfield, Missouri at the age of 90, Alonzo died ten years before. They had one daughter Rose, also a writer, and all are buried in Mansfield. We have visited the cemetery.

We purchased the complete set of Laura's books from Abebooks.com. Used, they were about $50 for the nine books. The grandchildren enjoy them immensely.

If you want to learn about Pioneer life from the eyes of a child, re-read the Little House On The Prairie books. The television show is fake, nothing like what the show presents ever happened in the books.

Life In A Log House

By Delores Miller



When immigrants came to Wisconsin from Germany, one of the first things they had to build, of course, was a house.  This land was covered with virgin timber.  In 1889 Ludwig Knaack, his wife Augusta (nee Hauschultz), and two sons, Charles and William came to Wisconsin, purchased 80 acres of land in Section 21 of Dupont.  Planted a large apple orchard in front by the road and named their farm Orchard Lawn Farm.

In 1892,  hemlock logs were hacked down  from their swamp and they commenced to build a home.  25x35 feet, two story, 1750 square feet, a good sized home, but then again more children arrived, Lillie, Emma, Ottro, Frederick and Johanna.  All were members of Trinity Luteran Church, West Dupont and family members are buried in the cemetery awaiting eternity.  Walked to German Catechism classes at Marion for eighth grade confirmation.

Dug a partial basement, used for storing fruits and vegetables, trap door from the kitchen, outside entrance.  Two doors front and back.  Brick chimney half way down, wood cook stove and heater to warm the house.  Four rooms downstairs, 3 upstairs.  Porch front and back.  Eight logs high on the first floor, 4 upstairs.  Balsam roof rafters, pine boards covering and red cedar shingles.  Dug a well for water, a cemented pit with a pump jack.  Logs were squared and hollowed at the ends so they fit snuggly together.  Cracks were filled with a plaster lime mixture, with shingles wedged.  Rough boards and latts were nailed over to keep the plaster from falling out.

The Knaack family lived in this log house until 1947, when they  had an auction, sold out and migrated to the Pine River area.  Reinhard Hintz acquired  the farm to pasture cattle.  Ray and Violet Arndt obtained the farm in 1964.  This log house stood forlorn and abandoned.  Because the roof was rotting, Ray put metal on to save from deterioration.

The Marion Historical Society, with members willing to save the log house, contacted the Wisconsin Conservation Corps, who dismantled the log house, numbered each log, and reassembled the house  exactly as it appeared in 1892 in Marion seven miles away.  Doors were made from old lumber, inside walls were covered with shiplap lumber and old newspapers.  A concrete base was poured, layered with 2x4s and matched pine floor boards.  Items were donated,  begged or borrowed: stoves, an organ, rope beds, cribs, cradles, pots, pans, rag braided rugs, pictures, etc.  This log home located near the baseball field  in Marion is a perfect example of life in a log house in the early years of 1900.  Every one should go visit and explore and hear the history from the volunteers.


HOMESTEAD

My axe is dull, my saw is gone,
These trees will stand forever.
The stones that I would lay them on,
Will one day break and sever.

The grass is in your garden now,
The weeds grow green and high.
Upon the hill I used to plow;
Our little creek is dry.

No happiness is here for me,
And though you bid me stay,
I only know, I only see
The road that leads away.


August and William Riske, twins were born on January 12, 1864, came to America in 1883 when they were 19 years old.  Purchased land in Dupont, which now 125 years later is still in the Riske name, 120 acres.  August Riske, 1864-1939,  married Hermine Lutzow, 1859-1914, had two daughters Clara Genskow, 1896-1991, and Ella, 1890-1900.  Ella died of typhoid fever when she was 10 years old.

William Riske, 1864-1941 married Hannah Dordell, 1874-1949, and had five children, Paul, 1896, Alma, 1898-1900, Martha Seelig, 1899-1979, Emil, 1902-1978, and Harvey, 1910-1981.  All were members of St. John's Lutheran Church, Marion.

Both brothers were well-to-do farmers.  William built a two story log house, 24x28, along with a  blacksmith, wagon, and buggie shop.  A two section barn, log and wood frame.  A 12x26 concrete silo was built later.

August Riske bequeathed his farm to his daughter and husband Arnold and Clara Genskow who farmed until 1948 when the Emil and Frieda Riske family moved across the road from their log house.  This is now the home of Edward and Mary Riske, located on Quarterline Road.  The log house of William Riske fell into disrepair, trees and bramble bushes covering   this fine home, and now in 2010 only memories and photographs remain.

                            copyright 2010, Russell and Delores Miller

Anyone with links to, or who is researching the Hauschultz / Hauschulz / Howschultz / Hochschultz / Hochschulz families' genealogy is most welcome to contact Jade Wuiske who has  extensively researched this family tree for over a decade via email.  Her address is  
jwuiske@live.com  
Also, would you please copy me, the editor, on any information so that I can send it along to Delores. Thank you.
dave@windsweptpress.com



 Delores Miller lives with husband Russell in Hortonville, Wisconsin.    In the summer of 2007 they  celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party hosted by their five children and ten grandchildren.  It’s been a long road.  Dairy farming until retirement in 1993, they continued to 'work' the land, making a subdivision of 39 new homes on their former hay fields.

The Unsecret Garden

by Michele Crabtree

With no secrets to conceal

A garden will reveal

Each facet of its glory

Every color being seen

Among the requisite green

Describes a detail of the story

Having nothing to hide

As her mood coincides

With the rites of the season

Respectful of the way

Her colors fade to gray

Not questioning the reasons


What seems to be conclusions

Is just shedding past illusions

Of scenes she left untold

The palettes of her history

Reflect no shades of mystery

So to not entrench her soul


No decisions must she make

To be real or to be fake

Cannot hide from her true color

While accepting without doubt

The new life that will sprout

The plan of nature's mother


To embrace the coming sequel

Which may or may not equal

The heritage of its past

With faith but not with envy

Her calm awaits the frenzy

When the time is right at last


Giving no excuses

Nor blaming past abuses

When her lushness is no longer

Assuring to return

With new lessons she will learn

To make her message stronger


She paints another chapter

While telling of its rapture

Makes no secret of its glory


This garden tells a story.

 

April 24, 2013

Michele Crabtree spent the first 52 of her 57 years in Cumberland, MD, her birthplace.  Since moving to Murrells Inlet, South Carolina in 2008, she thinks of herself as a "Southerner in training," realizing there is no such thing.  She has dabbled in humorous poetry since her twenties.  The source of her poetic leanings is her Great Aunt Olive who wrote clever rhymes on all of her greeting cards.   Michele is passionate about writing more serious poetry reflective of life experiences.  Her poetry style has been rhyming, but she is working on breaking from that "comfort level."  Her goal is to compile her past, present, and future writings in an organized fashion.

Not The Way I Want To Go

by Moe O'Brien

I remember Woody Allen saying “I’m not afraid of dying; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”  Like Woody, I have no fear of death, but unlike him I do want to be there.  And, I do have some preferences about the how and where of my demise.  One of my favorite death scenes is on the golf course.  I’ve just hit the longest drive ever, the ball soaring down the middle of the fairway.  I hear myself whisper “Wow,” and then I hear the polite applause of the spectators.  Here’s another one:  my baby puppy girl is smothering me with kisses and I tell her how much I love her. She gives me one more slobbery kiss and I say, “Thank you, good girl.”

Please, don’t think that I am obsessed with death and dying. I am not. It’s just that what happened yesterday got me thinking about how I don’t want to leave this good life.  My doctor ordered an MRI because I had been having some serious back pain.   I do have to mention that I am a bit claustrophobic but I have made it through many an MRI.  I hum and sing right along with the rhythm of the knocking sounds  In fact, I’ve written a few songs while in the tube. 

Yesterday was different.  Kelly, the technician told me that the first part of the test would take about forty minutes.  I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, I decided that more than forty minutes had gone by.  In fact, I was convinced that it has been at least an hour.  Every minute after that felt like ten minutes.  My heart began pumping overtime and the sweat accumulating on my face was dripping down my neck.  The washcloth Kelly had placed over my eyes was supposed to provide comfort.  Instead, it felt like a searing, hot compress.  I considered squeezing the ball she had placed in my hand so that she would come and check on me.  But I didn’t want to stop the test, for fear that I would have to go through it all over again.

 I’ve never had a panic attack before but now looking back, I think I was having one. 

These are the thoughts that were swimming through my head.  What if Kelly has fainted or has had a heart attack?  Will the machine stop by itself or will it keep going and will I then be magnetized to death?    I don’t want to go like this, Dear Lord.

I was reading my obituary “died peacefully in an MRI machine,” when I heard Kelly’s voice.    

“You did very well.  I’m going to bring you out now and we’ll put in the contrast.” She took one look at me and said, “You don’t look very well.  Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not.  I don’t feel well at all.  I was afraid that you had fainted and nobody would come to get me out of here and the machine would go on and on and I would die and this is not the way I want to go and were you back there all by yourself,” I rambled on and couldn’t seem to stop.  She immediately started to douse my face with a cold compress, in an attempt to calm me down.

“Yes, I was running the test by myself.  But I was watching you all the time, dear.  Believe me, you were in no danger. 

“But who was watching you?  Shouldn’t there be two technicians running the test?  I mean what if something happened to you?”

Kelly never did answer that last question but she did allow that there are usually two technicians.  Apparently, someone had called in sick and so they were understaffed.  I was so grateful to be alive that I didn’t demand more answers. 

Lesson learned:  I will never do another MRI unless there are two technicians present.  

 
Maureen “Moe” O’Brien moved from Bethel, CT to Myrtle Beach, SC in 1988.   Her “claim to fame” as she likes to phrase it, is that she played professional basketball, touring with the Harlem Globetrotters in 1959. She is an avid golfer and won the SC Senior Women’s Golf Championship in 1993 and 2004.  Her book “Who’s Got The Ball?  And Other Nagging Questions About Team Life”, was published in 1995.  It is a “how to” book for team members in all work environments.  Maureen is the proud Grandma of eight granddaughters, ranging in age from fifteen to twenty seven.

Dad's Letter: The Last Flight

Captain Ed Kieselbach

There are two stories in this post, maybe more eventually. On the mornnig of August 26, 1944, Captain Ed Kieselbach pulled back on the column and launched his B-24 into the air from the air strip in Italy headed for Romania.His and a group of other bombers were headed for the oil fields near Bucharest.  The plane never made it home. Ed and two others eventually made it back to America.  The rest of the crew found eternal rest beneath the ground in what is today the Republic of Macedonia.  Before Ed's death he penned the following acount of that day to his family.  Captain Kieselbach's daughter, Cindy Kieselbach Dister, has graciously allowed us to publish it..

It turns out that the brother of a woman who regularly writes for The MoreStories Place was on the plane that day.   June Tuthill Bassemir's story about her brother, Bruce Tuthill, was previously published here, but it certainly will come alive even more so when you read it again following The Last Flight by his captain.  But first, Captain Ed Kieselbach.
 

The Last Flight

by Captain Edwin C. Kieselbach

Dear Children: this is an actual experience in the life of your father, grandfather, (great-grandfather) and Uncle Edwin Carl Kieselbach. Captain Edwin C. Kieselbach #076118 USAF assigned to the 15^th Air Force 455^th bomb Group, 732 Squadron, based in Italy near Bari which is near the east coast of Italy. All of this was routine assignment for a pilot during World War II.

Captain Kieselbach, top center, Bruce Tuthill, kneeling, far left.

I had completed 43 combat missions. If you completed 50 combat missions you could be rotated home for a rest. After that you would probably be assigned to duty in the Pacific. Our country was also at war with Japan.

The morning of Aug. 26, 1944 our target was Bucharest, Romania, a marshalling yard “Train Depot”. Oil shipments, munitions, and troops were passing through this location. Our mission was to destroy and harass the enemy.

Take off and assembly went well. Our group consisted of four squadrons with 8-9 planes each. There were about 40 planes that proceeded toward target at an altitude of 22,000 feet. Each plane carried about 6000 lbs (anti personnel bombs).

Enemy anti aircraft fire was heavy although no enemy aircraft were seen. Unfortunately my B24 Bomber the four engine Liberator was struck by anti aircraft fire. The missile was about 18” long and exploded above and below the plane. One engine was damaged. This caused a decrease in airspeed. The rest of my flight proceeded on, leaving my aircraft to become a straggler.

A straggler is considered easy prey by the enemy fighter planes. Soon five ME 109 German fighter planes attacked from directly behind. The first burst of machine gun fire hit the tail gunner. All we heard from was “here they come. I’m hit, I’m hit”. No one could help him. Then the waist gunner was struck. My copilot slumped in his seat and considerable blood flowed from his wounds. He died in his seat. 

 

Enemy machine gun fire penetrated the length of the B24 from the tail coming out the windshield. This fire passed through the Ball Torret gunner’s position. He never made a call through the intercom. We never knew how badly he was injured. The five German fighters each made a run on my B24, rolled over on their backs and dove toward home. My battered B24 was still in the air. I continued to wrestle with too many mechanical problems to relate to you.

The mountains were high and rugged. Mountain tops seemed to be too close. I maneuvered to avoid these mountain heights by flying over valleys, which was unwise. Before long my plane was being blasted by anti aircraft fire. The noise and explosions were very, very awesome and frightening! I could only try to sustain control but soon the plane was spinning out of control. I hit the Alarm Bell. This signals, “Bail Out”. Evidently the top turret gunner went out. I saw his badly battered body later in the day. The other waist gunner was never accounted for. The bombadier, radio operator and I found each other at a prison some days later. 

 

My predicament: the anti aircraft fire blew off the two vertical tail assembly rudders. The B24 started to spin in a flat motion. At this time I was certain life would be all over for me. I do remember thinking. “My Mother will never know where I am.” I made my move. The centrifical force held me as I crawled out of the cock pit, pushed away from the controls pedestal and flopped into the bomb bay. I had already opened these doors when I hit the alarm Bell. I was out on my back, looking up at the belly of the B24. That is how I knew the tail was gone. At that instant I pulled the rip cord on my parachute. With a jolt it opened. Right then tree tops engulfed me. We were instructed to ball up when you hit the trees as you could lose an arm or leg tearing through the branches. Minutes after I thought my end had come I was on the ground. I am not overly religious however I knelt and thanked God for his protection. Just think how close we ALL came to not being on earth. 

 

I was alone. I saw the top turret gunner’s badly bashed body. His chute opened but his body struck the steep mountain side. I was above because exiting the spinning plane I was thrown between the sides of steep mountains. We had been told that in an event such as this we should go higher into the mountains staying away from farms and towns. Soldiers and civilians were out in force looking for the crew of the downed B24.

Hours passed. At one place soldiers came so close I could see their shoe laces. They fired into bushes. The sound of this gun fire was everywhere indicating they were panicky. I went from tree to tree putting my back against a tree or a rock. I was afraid that someone would shoot me from behind. I was armed with standard issue 45 caliber automatic. Suddenly two soldiers confronted me. They jabbed and lunged at me with their bayonets. One put the point against my chest and pushed. The leather of my jacket probably saved me. They were so close I count’s miss. I fired at them. Both went down with loud grunts looking more surprised than in pain. To this day I don’t know if they died or were just wounded. 

I continued to walk up into the mountains but civilians came with shot guns and pitch forks. I hid in a rock crevice and time went by. It was still. It was then I realized that I had been wounded. My back at my left shoulder was sticky. It still has a bothersome feel to it. People with hound dogs on leashes were on my trail. I knew this was it. I called out “Amerikanski” in a low voice so as not to alarm them. They had me. 

 

Kieselbach kneeling, in overseas cap; Tuthill standing far right

I could not understand their language. One man who appeared to be a civilian spoke English. He had lived in Detroit Mich. He said the war was over for me, that I would go to prison, rest and read books. He was very wrong.

Soon the civilians were outnumbered by German and Bulgarian soldiers. The Bulgarians took me prisoner as I was in their country. The Bulgarians are harsh, mountain people with long bushy mustaches. They marched me away. I wondered why they did not disarm me. I still had the 45 cal. Automatic in my shoulder holster. Again I did a dumb thing at a resting place. I thought it wise to surrender my gun. When I pulled it out they shouted and ran around in all directions. Now this was dumb if anyone of them had been front line troops I am sure they would have shot me. But I was wounded, nauseated and feeling lost and scared. I held my weapon by the barrel and waved it at them. Lucky for and you all they understood and accepted my weapon. 

 

On the way to my eventual prison a strange thing happened. Soldiers woke me at night threatening me again with bayonets. They took my watch, etc., led me out of the stockade, marched me ahead of them across a valley of farms. We were halfway across when the station we had been in blew up with a loud bang! Smoke poured up. The guard hastened me onward. I never understood what caused the explosion but the guards did not want to go back. Neither did I. 

 

I spent time in jails and insane asylums until I ended in a prison atop a small mountain. It looked like a stone castle, big wood door and all. The commandant would ride his horse around it every morning in full uniform. He was so proud to have 201 American “gangsters” (that is what they called us) in his charge. We slept on straw with no blankets. Our food was potato soup or bean soup and one small loaf of rye bread each day. We used tin cans for utensils. The camp was near Schumen, Bulgaria close to the Black Sea.

One night we saw flashes in the sky and heard booms. It was canon fire. The next day all the guards were gone. The Russians were coming towards our prison. The Russians were our allies in World War II but we were told not to wait for them to liberate us. It was the practice of the Russians to shoot any people in uniforms that they were not acquainted with. We scattered and were on our own again. 

 

I made my way toward Greece riding a train on a flat car that was strafed by US B51’s. Then on to Turkey, then to Syria hitch hiking on British trucks all the way around the Mediterranian Sea to Cairo, Egypt. Once in Cairo the American ground troops radioed my group in Italy. They sent one of our B24’s to take me back to my home base. They were glad to see me! It was one heck of a party!

It's been reported that the debris field for what might have been Captain Kieselbach's and Bruce Tuthill's plane, has been found near Vratnica.   We'll keep readers posted as that story unfolds.  Meanwhile, here is Bruce's younger sister's account of a terrible day in her life when she found her brother was not coming home.

A Case For Peace

by June Tuthill Bassemir

This is 2009.  Sixty five years ago in 1944 my brother Bruce W. Tuthill gave “the supreme sacrifice”…his life for his Country in WW2.  It was supposed to be the last war.  We lived for about a month with the “Missing in Action” notice until the final dreaded telegram of “Killed in Action” came.  As hard a blow as it was for us to bear, the taxi man who delivered it had just as hard a time.   He tried for as long as he could to delay the news of the delivery.  Mr. Miller was the husband of Bruce’s first grade teacher and his job was to relay these telegrams as they came in to the parents in our small town.  It was a dark day in November when we received the news.  Its devastation is no less potent today than it was then but there are fewer and fewer folks still living to remember him.  Gone are his Mother, Father, his oldest brother; both Grandmothers; the only Grandfather he knew; Uncles and Aunts…. Gone are his two closest buddies; his first girlfriend and his admiring Floridian cousin who thought so much of him that she even named her son - Bruce.

Bruce Tuthill, standing far right

He was born on April 18th 1924 and died twenty years, four months and eight days later – in 1944.  He was very proud of his birthday and never failed to let people know that it was the date of the ride of Paul Revere – no less a hero.  He graduated from H. S. in 1942 and after working at Grumman Aircraft for a short time, he enlisted in the Army Air Corp in 1943.  His basic training was at Camp Upton, NY and from there he went on to Miami FL; Tulsa OK; Las Vegas NM; and Sheffield, TX.  In Tulsa he met “Billy” Emmons, a nice girl whom I am sure he was planning to come home to.

Finally, he was ready to be shipped out and the Army gave him a “Ten Day Delay en Route” to visit the family in the spring of ’44.  The pictures of that time are curled and yellowed now, but oh how the memory lingers.  All four siblings lined up in profile for that picture – from the tallest and oldest brother; then the second oldest brother, then Bruce; then me his only sister.  That day he showed off his bulky brown shiny flight suit and his khaki uniform with the Staff Sgt. Insignia on the sleeve.  At one point he noticed I was wearing the gold plated locket he sent me.  Someone snapped a picture of us just as he said, “Oh… you’re wearing my locket – and my picture is inside”.   I still have that picture with the locket attached to the outside of the frame. 
I look at it and see two young people unaware of the photographer …absorbed in the joy of the moment.

He loved his family and his home town and wrote frequently from the day he enlisted to the bombing days while stationed in Italy. We didn’t know then where he was but afterward we learned that he was part of the bombing raids that targeted the Polesti Oil fields in Poland.  I became the recipient of all his letters and tried to put them in a book but reading them with his hope of what he wanted to do when he came home expressed in all the letters caused my heart strings to stretch and the tears to flow.  I put them aside thinking that time will ease the sorrow.

We now know that Kieselbach saw but couldn't reach the body of top turret gunner Bruce Tuthill.

My life went on; I married; children were born; houses were built; moves were made – and still the letters followed with me.  Now, my oldest son in his 50’s is interested in his Uncle Bruce that he never met.  I dug out the letters to read and to supply the information my son wanted.  What kind of a plane did he fly; what was his position in the plane; did the plane have a name; what was the number of the Bomb Squadron; how many missions did he fly?  I found that even though tears flowed again, the more I read of Bruce’s familiar hand writing, the closer I felt.  He lived in a tent and frequently he would write his letter as “the candle is getting low” or “I’m writing this by flashlight”.  He had adopted a dog, a mutt really, and the guys called him “Elmer”.  Elmer slept with Bruce on his cot. At one point he and his crew went to the Isle of Capri and he thought it was “the most beautiful place he had ever seen”.  When servicemen wrote home they only had to write “Free” where the stamp would be and V-mail was another method of receiving mail.  One sheet of writing was photographed and sent in a small envelope.  While it was good to receive those letters, it was less intimate than a regular hand written one.  Quite often the letters were censored if something was said that would imperil the safety of the soldiers or give information to the enemy.  He said, “After fifty missions, we get to fly to Miami Beach for a 21 day rest”.  I don’t know if that was a rumor or if it was really true.  Fifty was the magic number. - But he was on his 35th mission when his plane was hit.  All but two of the crew was able to parachute to safety but Bruce was not one of them.  He occupied the Top Turret Gunner position on the B-24, having proven himself to be a good marksman.  One of the crew, who lived in Brooklyn, came to visit us after he was sent home.  He told us more than we wanted to know of that last flight.  Too late to stop him, he said my brother’s chute failed to open.

I have come to the end of this writing… my eyes are swollen again but this time it has been comforting to share my brother’s thoughts and activities with my interested son…. sort of a visit with my brother “Bru” and his Uncle.   Maybe some day wars will cease but I doubt it.  There always seems to be another generation in the wings that has not learned that hatred, revenge, envy, greed and fighting only lead to bloodshed and heartache for those left behind.  Of course, they say that WW2 was “an honorable war” but really in the end “honorable” or not, if you have lost a loved one in any war the sadness never really goes away.

          copyright February, 2009, June Tuthill Bassemir

June Tuthill Bassemir is the widowed mother of four and grandmother of 10.  An artist and writer, she  volunteers as a docent in a 1765 farm house.   June loves old cars and antiques, and has also enjoyed furniture stripping and rug hooking.  "I used to say I was a stripper and hooker.but with so many trips around the sun, no one raises an eyebrow anymore. They only laugh."  June has given up furniture stripping, but is still an avid rug hooker.

Summer On The Farm

A note from Delores Miller

Here it is the first of July, 2013 is half gone.  How fast time flies.  Attached is a picture if you can open it of Russell and his garden.  Stakes hold up his climbing peas and pole beans.  The rest is lots of potatoes, carrots, beets, dill, cucumbers, watermelon, zucchini, tomatoes, onions, etc.  With all the hot humid rainy weather, everything is really growing.

Summer on the farm and the hay fields are growing.  Late this year and Russ swathed down two fields, so later in the week, we should be baling.  Even this year, I will try and hoist myself on the Oliver 1650 and run the baler.  Last year, I didn't have the strength, because I was in the midst of chemo treatment for my breast cancer.  I am feeling much better this year.

Russell tends the garden

Even my hair grew back, and I got a curly perm.  Cut the grass every few days, some places had standing water with all the rain. 

Richard and family return from London, England and Wales tomorrow night.  Talked to him briefly and he said everything was going well, had two days of rain and cloudy.  He rented a car, but didn't ask how that was going on the other side of the road from what we are used to driving here in the USA.

Went to the June Dairy Brunch on a big farm one Sunday, lots of good food, many kinds of cheese, scrambled eggs and ham, cinnamon toast, milk, strawberry sundaes, etc.  Thousands of people were there under all the huge tents.  Got my fill of seeing cows, calves and manure.  Nice operation.

Strawberry season locally here in Wisconsin, so good compared to the California berries.  Only last a few weeks.  Made 30 small jars of freezer jam, which will taste so good in winter.  Blueberries, too in the grocery stores, froze 10 pints to make pies in winter too.
 
Father's day was June 18, the children came home and took us out to eat Indian food.  Packed a picnic lunch one day and gave Keith and family the 4 hour Miller Historical tour, where Russ and I grew up.  Took lots of pictures.  Helvetia, Shady Grove School, Symco and it's antique machinery, many cemeteries, the Miller farm, Big Falls, Little Falls, Marion, the Chief Waupaca Indian burial ground, etc.

My 75th birthday was recently, got lots of cards and good wishes.  Where has the time gone?

Went to an old car show, had brats and sauerkraut.  Concert at a church, with a big lunch.  Oh, what busy people we are...

Computer is acting funny, some things disappear, never to show up again. So better quit and 'send'.
  copyright Russell and Delores Miller, 2013