Uncle Wheels - Giving To The End

Taps bugled at a military funeral always touches our hearts, but this day the pure, drawn-out notes penetrated more deeply. They were for Uncle Wheels, a noteworthy member of the Greatest Generation with an impressive personal history.

It was a beautifully clear morning in South Carolina on the eve of All Saints Day as we gathered to salute the life of Lt. Cmdr. Own "Wheels" Wheeler, a Naval veteran who retired from military but not from service to mankind. To the day he died he was giving back.

We said goodbye at Fort Jackson Military Cemetery, where he would be buried next to Bonnie, his wife of sixty-three years. Just short of ninety-four, he had been active and in excellent health. The richness of his years kept us from the shock when a life is taken too young, but just the same it hurt that we couldn't have him for longer. Always a pleasure to be around, he shared a sharp sense of humor and awareness of current events.

Mixed in our grief amid admiration and appreciation was my tinge at the envy at the fullness of his life and the value of his decisions. As a young adult from West Virginia's coal country, Wheels joined the Navy to serve in WWII and ended up in the thick of it in a crucial battle in the South Pacific. He was a combat pilot who saw a lot of action that included ditching his aircraft in the drink twice due to mechanical failures - common but seldom reported occurrences at that time.

Both times he was pulled from the ocean after a few hours, but a third time he was adrift for several terrifying days after his escort aircraft carrier, the USS Gambier Bay, was sunk by the Japanese in the Battle of Leyte Gulf near the Philippines. It was the largest Naval battle in history and the victory was a turning point for the U.S. armada. He was one of the lucky survivors not killed in blasts or sharks.

The Navy must have respected Wheels because at the War's end he was selected to fly the official surrender papers to be signed in Tokyo by the Japanese. Later, he was on the same ship as President Harry Truman.

Like many who have actually experienced the horrors of war, he didn't talk about the gore or his private feelings about any of it. It took another veteran or aviator to get Wheels to revisit those times and one of my regrets is that I would not be there to listen if and when he opened up.

After he left the Navy and had a successful business career with a paper company, Wheels did not retire. He just shifted his focus and his willingness to give back - preparing and delivering meals to the homeless in Columbia, SC as well as working for Meals on Wheels (giving that enterprise a chuckle with the play on his name). He was also a volunteer clerk at the base pharmacy right up to the end, standing up to six hours a day.

He was a loving, faithful husband and a devoted father to his only child, daughter Jennifer.  Over the years he traveled with his wife and daughter extensively, visiting some 150 countries. He loved different, exotic foods, the hotter the better. He was my wife's uncle and she marveled at his wit, stylish dress and enthusiasm to see the world. She claims he never changed, looking and acting the same since she was a little girl.

But though he did age, Wheels continued a busy volunteer schedule and remained active and faithful in his Incarnation Lutheran Church in Columbia. He maintained connections with Naval comrades and attended reunions where the numbers of attendees continue to shrink.  Several months before his death he was on a veteran's Honor Flight to Washington DC.

Even more recently, his daughter accompanied him to San Diego to meet eight surviving shipmates from the Gambier Bay. They got home the night of October 28 and travel-weary, he went to bed after Jennifer kissed him goodnight.  He died peacefully in his sleep that very night, bringing gentle closure to a life well lived.

It was a serene departure for an admirable veteran, husband, father and friend. His memorial was a humbling experience for those of us who can only hope the Creator has compassion for lesser men.

A Big Move

We all know life is a trade-off and we usually have to give up something to gain something.  That's our situation now as we plan to move from our home in Washington state after the last 22 years. Our travel budget crisscrossing the country to visit relatives is shocking and our young families do not have the resources to visit here as often as we'd like.

It is not easy to give up the summer hiking opportunities in the nearby mountains and ocean beaches. And it is tough to leave a wonderfully safe and quiet neighborhood with upstanding neighbors. Most of all, we're forfeiting easy personal access to dear friends and associates, though we'll be coming back several times each year. I've learned the hard way to treasure those rare, close and intimate friendships that occasionally bless our lives. I have them here in Lewis County.

But the trade-off is significant. What we'll gain by moving to Northern Minnesota is closeness to more of our family.  Four of our five adult children and all seven (thus far) active grandchildren live within a day's drive of Brainerd, MN and the lakes region. A talented son, who is single, remains in Chehalis so we'll stay connected.

As I've gotten older and hopefully wiser, I am aware that we only have one go-round with grandchildren. The joys of watching them develop from energetic and carefree children into responsible, contributing adults is a highlight of a grandparent's life. With two of them already out of the nest I am grateful for the chance to be more present for their younger counterparts' plays, recitals, ball games and holidays.

My annual highlight is experiencing family togetherness in a lake cabin setting, cruising a chain of clear, fresh water lakes, playing games and telling stories around a fire pit.  Of course every family has its issues and challenges, but the wonderful blend of personalities, creativity and togetherness is a gift we truly appreciate and need.

We don't have an exact timetable for this move, but doing so will make such gatherings easier and more frequent.

Yeah, It's 'Walrus'

(Reading Time @ 90 Seconds)

 

As a kid some sixty years ago, the term might have started a fight.

 

"Hey there, it's Walrus!"

 

I looked behind me to see if the greeting was aimed elsewhere. Nope. This stranger - about my age and size, in a similar Hawaiian shirt and silvering hair - was smiling broadly as he approached during the wedding rehearsal function. He stuck out his hand and in that brief moment I could not make a connection. Friendly, but unfamiliar.

 

Now "Walrus" was an old grade school moniker playing on my last name that always sparked my anger. Had this been in my home state of Iowa, where I know everybody, the term might have made sense, but we were in the steamy vineyards of Lodi, CA for this social event.

 

"Read it in 'Walkin' Joe,'" he said.

 

"You're Denny Waller, nicknamed Walrus, right? Great book."

 

Will, the father of the groom and a lawyer, had much to say about our similar childhoods. He was amazed at our common bicycle gang adventures and mischief - his in California and mine in Iowa. His son Mike had given him my memoir.

 

"That could have taken place right here amid all the acres of peaches when I was a kid. They hired hundreds of itinerant workers like Walkin' Joe - right off the railcars. Put them in shacks near the orchards. Rough, but hard working fellows. One of the guys I remember was supposed to be a convicted murderer. I was fascinated by him."

 

He both laughed and winced at my book's tales - many matching his own.  The mutual history fostered an immediate and warm bond and Will said he'd passed the book on to a friend because he was sure it would interest anyone growing up in the Fifties and Sixties.

 

It was one of those pleasantries of reminiscing that grows more important as we age. Self-publishers best not bank on fame and fortune in today's complex book world, but the rewards of writing come at unexpected times. Will isn't the only one kind enough to express appreciation. 

 

I heard from Dennis, a P&G executive in Pennsylvania and Conrad, a logger in Washington not prone to crafting letters. A Catholic monk in Nebraska took time to write, as did a woman raised in an urban Jewish neighborhood. Harvey, who opens his own home to wanderers in Lewis County, WA, was most effusive. Notes have come from many states and are often former Iowans, like a woman author with a PhD in Florida, a professor in Oklahoma and the nurse in LA. And I can't count the number of phone calls, emails, texts and Facebook messages resulting from the book.

 

The memoir, "Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauder," is based on my hometown's Centennial year, 1954, as we grade schoolers tested the edges of the adult world. In places it is a bit raw, but judging by the response I've received personally - as well as the comments at book signings - we weren't the only mischief makers of the generation.

 

I'd like to think today's trouble-making juvies are more sensitive to the unfortunate folks who fall through the cracks of society, like Walkin' Joe.

Of Mice and Women

(reading time 150 seconds)

Mother was a strong, quiet woman, born on the barren North Dakota plains with a natural work ethic and an ingrained resolve to endure hardships.  She had her share - starting her family of five at a tender age with an older, domineering husband.  Hard working and even harder-drinking, he was emotionally abusive and when they argued or fought, as they often did, she clammed up and went to work. There were storm windows or screens to be placed on the two story house, a lawn to mow or a driveway to shovel. And then there were the standard necessities of raising her brood.

Day after day, year after year, she did it all silently, soberly going about her business and ours.  But on a rare occasion a simple uninvited guest could fracture my image of this strong-willed homemaker into an animated, shrieking stranger.

The appearance of a mouse.

It didn't happen often, but if a darting little intruder were spotted, I watched her climb onto the nearest chair, couch or dining room table. It was a transformation that baffles me to this day.

It's been said you marry your mother and indeed, I did settle in with a strong, independent hard worker, a proud and reserved South  Carolinian.  She had a career accommodating demanding frequent fliers as she adjusted to relocations - at one point moving 10 times in 11 years. More importantly, she's endured catastrophic losses of loved ones, swallowing her emotions to spare others' suffering as she retreated into silent pain. In her volunteer work with children in dependency, she can put logic before surface feelings (a talent I envy). She's tough.

Except when a mouse appears.

Vacationing recently on the edge of the Southern Utah desert, she awoke just prior to dawn to see a gray blur racing along the shower wall. It was an early day for both of us and my first duty was to get traps. "It was a big rat!"

It set up my trap line to nail that lil' sucker and in the meantime she did some research. She found a cell phone app that emits a high-pitched frequency inaudible to the human ear, but penetrating to any approaching rodent. She also read that furry gray blurs avoid light, so ours stayed on all night.

The next day, success, as the sneaky devil succumbed to salami bait. It was not a rat, but a regular house mouse - a very healthy one. Our troubles were over until the next morning. The thyroid pill she'd carefully placed on top of a cup was missing and the thief left behind a little calling card. "That rat ate my thyroid pill. We're leaving!"

Calming discussion followed as I exercised my wildlife wisdom that rodents don't share intellectual reasoning and scheming the way humans do. They were not focused on terrorizing my darling wife. Not until she opened the dishwasher.

Screaming in the kitchen never heard before gave me the image of severed fingers. But no, a mouse ("That rat!") was in the dishwasher, darting this way and that in an effort to escape. We have no idea how he got into a closed appliance, but I couldn't reach him.  So, like any reasonable hero, I came up with an easy solution. Turn the thing on.

Somehow, mousey made it through two wash and dry cycles, likely refreshed even in his hyperthyroid state. So it was back to the store for more traps. The clerk upon hearing my tale, said I should be thankful it wasn't a much bigger pack rat so prevalent in the region. That night, the washed-and-dried invader made the fatal nibble on a chunk of salami. (Tip: that bait works better than peanut butter).

There was cautious celebration, but she put an exclamation point on her fear. Given a choice of having a mouse or a rattlesnake in the dishwasher, she'd prefer the reptile. She did not wish to see the victim, nor the container/casket used to send it to Neverland, nor could I reuse the trap. I will say that the mouse's ("rat's") eyes were bulging - either from the thyroid overdose or the neck-snapping metal clamp. Apparently it's a deadly combination.

Before we left the next day we took a quick tour of the nearby no-kill animal sanctuary in Kanab, UT - the largest in the country. They have horses, dogs, cats, donkeys, rabbits and some exotic animals biding their final days in peaceful serenity. I did not ask about mice.

What I still don't understand is the basic fear such strong women have of mice. They were dreaded long before hantavirus made news headlines. Could this fear be traced back to the good old days, when rats spread bubonic plague? 

I assume the powerful reaction is a learned behavior, but I know better than to try to correct it.

Beyond Words

(Reading time 2 mins.)

 

   Unless I am comfortable with someone, subjects of politics and religion are avoided. FaceBook and social media postings do not influence my leanings, nor mine yours. Doing so alienates half your contacts, but in the interest of free speech, have at it.

 

   There's a big difference between religion and spirituality. I try to keep an open mind on specific church labels and I respect yours. The only faiths I find objectionable are those whose edict is "convert or die" and that radical approach reaches into varied denominations and cultures.

 

   I've participated in several religions and have witnessed improved citizens, spouses, parents and neighbors. I admire a host of clergy members and church activists. I've been blessed by associations with LDS bishops, Catholic priests, Christian ministers and those practicing relaxed Judaism. The only Buddhist I know is a relative, a Buddhist nun, who has more peace and serenity than anyone I know.

 

   Having written this disclaimer, this blog is about my individual spirituality. It is open-ended and not intended to alter your providential direction, though I hope you have or will find one. I've felt the presence of a Higher Power in churches, in sensitive interactions with individuals and in recovery meetings and discussion. I've learned not to expect enlightenment, but to treasure it. When I am touched, I do my best to absorb the impact and give thanks to the God of my understanding.

 

   Nowhere is this more powerful for me than in nature. Ever since childhood I've found solace out-of-doors and near animals of the wild. Whether on the Midwest prairies, Minnesota lakes, Colorado rivers, peaks of Montana or the Washington coastline, my God is out there. Easily distracted, I do better far from crowds, media and the latest technology. That is not to say I don't sense our maker in your presence, home or building, but it is best when I am alone with God. That attraction pushes me out the door and into Mother Nature.

 

   After some six decades of occasionally encountering and appreciating spiritual connections in nature, I thought I had seen and felt all there was to offer. I wasn't tired or bored, just not expecting to be zapped the way I was recently in southern Utah's Bryce Canyon National Park on a clear, crisp day in early spring. 

 

   My wife and I have been on a number of the Park's impressive trails, but on this day the Fairyland Loop took my breath away. The eight-mile round trip jaunt is labeled strenuous with an elevation gain of 2,300 ft. (also breath-taking). The myriad of earth's colors and shapes was mind-boggling, a bright sun spotlighting the snow-dusted hoodoos beneath a brilliant blue sky. We struggled to find the best descriptive words. There were none.

 

   My wish is that you might also find a place in the presence of your Higher Power. To sum up the depth of feelings from this trek - so powerful at the time I could not think in words - I felt His creation of it all. I was humbled - an imperfect human being passing through a perfect world. And insignificant though I am in the eons of time needed to craft this masterpiece, I indeed did matter and I felt loved.

 

   I was walking in a prayer.