2022 Memorial Day Service

I was asked to be the guest speaker at Carlyle’s 2022 Memorial Day service. I began by recognizing veterans and those who lost relatives or loved ones during our country’s wars. 
 
Then I gave a brief history of Memorial Day. It began—I didn’t know this—after the Civil War in which 622,000 soldiers perished. It began as Decoration Day, begun by the Grand Army of the Republic, a fraternal organization composed of veterans of the Civil War. It didn’t become a national holiday until 1971. 
 
I added, “I find it disconcerting that the holiday has evolved into one on which all graves are decorated. In my opinion it dilutes the original intent of the holiday—to remember and honor those who died for our freedoms.” 
 
Then I turned to my platoon. During my year-long tour sixteen of my platoon’s young men died. Their average age was 20.5. 
 
I knew when I would be drafted seven months in advance. While in my third semester of college I received a notice advising me that my student deferment had been terminated and I was now 1a, which meant ready to be drafted. I visited the local draft board, who said I didn’t fill out a questionnaire—they put a notice on the bulletin board at the school but I didn’t see it. They told me I’d be drafted in seven months. That gave me time to mentally prepare to be a soldier. During that time I concluded that I wanted to be where the action is. Once inducted I volunteered for Vietnam and the infantry, two options not very hard to get in the 60s. 
 
I figured, all I have to do is be careful; nothing’s gonna happen to me. Once in Vietnam I quickly learned that that notion is as false as it could be. I wrote that 19 to 25 year olds make the best soldiers for the same reason they make the worst drivers. They have not yet realized their own mortality—how easy it is to die. 
 
Next I discussed two of my platoon’s casualties.  
 
Bernard Mattson was from Peoria, and arrived around the same time I did. So we became friends, and hung around together. On 12 Jan 68 our company was assigned the task of searching a suspected VC village. We surrounded it to prevent VC from escaping and reinforcements from arriving. Then half of each platoon entered the village to conduct the search. I was on the search team, and while we were in the village the VC mortared our positions on the perimeter. Of course everyone hugged the ground and pulled buttons from their shirts to get closer. One small piece of shrapnel entered Mattson’s left side beneath his armpit, and pierced his heart. Medics tried to save him, but there was nothing they could do. He was 20. 
 
Kellum (Kelly) Grant was one of the old timers in the platoon when I arrived; he was due to go home soon. On 4 May 68 we assaulted an enemy position on line with everyone throwing a lot of lead to gain what the military calls fire superiority. One of the enemy reached up and squeezed the trigger of an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade). It hit Grant in the chest, killing him instantly. I was not far to his left, and have a piece of shrapnel in my chin from the explosion. Grant was also 20. 
 
Then I read an excerpt from my book, which began when I arrived in-country:  “I would soon learn two things. First, there are certain things that soldiers in combat can do to reduce their chances of becoming a casualty; second, there are more ways to increase those chances.” Both types of lessons had to be learned quickly, and most of the details were not taught during our training. Unfortunately, these skills and knowledge increased but did not guarantee a soldier’s chance of surviving.
 
“In the end, those who died or were wounded terribly were not the poorest soldiers. They were not the least prepared or the least careful. Too many of them were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have easily been someone else. It was, to a certain extent, the luck of the draw.” 
 
So today I will think of Mattson and Grant as well as the other fourteen soldiers from my platoon who didn’t make it home. In our hearts and memories they will remain forever young.

An 1890 Silver Dollar

When I was about six or seven years of age, my dad gave me and my brother and sister each a silver dollar. The one he handed to me bore the date 1890. I don't remember what happened to the coins he gave my brother and sister, but I carried mine in my pocket. I liked the feel of it there, and took it out to inspect it several times a day. I grew to love that coin and carried it for well over a month.

One day my dad came down the stairs dressed to go out, and asked whether I still had the silver dollar. I confirmed that I did, and drew it from my pocket. He told me we didn’t have any money, but needed milk, and asked for the silver dollar. I obediently handed it to him.

Over the next few weeks, I missed the silver dollar, but learned a lesson: life goes on despite losing something that meant something to me. Soon I was caught up in the adventures that capture the imagination of a young boy, and forgot about it.

A couple of months later, it was Christmas. My brother, sister, and I opened our presents while sitting on the floor near the sparkling tree. Afterward we remembered our stockings. I reached into the one bearing my name, and pulled out a few small treats and trinkets that were like my siblings.

Then my dad told me I missed something in my stocking, and suggested I reach all the way to its bottom. I soon pulled out a coin--a silver dollar. I turned it over, and saw that the date was 1890. Further, I recognized the scratches on the coin's face, and realized it was the same one I had handed Dad months before.

It became apparent that after he had been paid, Dad returned to the store and bought back the silver dollar I had given him.

Many times small, seemingly insignificant things create lasting impressions, and so it was with my 1890 silver dollar. It was a wonderful Christmas. I no longer remember the presents I received that year, but will never forget the consideration, sensitivity, and thoughtfulness a dad had for his young son on that Christmas morning.

Thanks Dad

Your son, Roger

Stanley Hayes

One-Room School Memories

One-Room School Memories

I attended Elmwood Grade School for sixth grade in the school year beginning in the fall of 1958. The school closed after that year. I went on to Junior High, but my brother, a year behind me, was transferred along with fellow Elmwood alumni to Empire Grade School. 


Elmwood Grade School was located on the south side of Lamm Road, three tenths of a mile west of South Baileyville Road, which when I lived there was called the Baileyville blacktop. The building still stands, and is presently a private residence. 


My parents were Stanley Hayes and Mary (Marler) Hayes. When I was born, we lived at 815 West American Street in the home built by my grandfather, John Ray Marler, who was a ticket agent for the Illinois Central Railroad. 


In the summer of 1958 we moved to a one-room cabin previously owned by “Cowboy” Bill Fay. We later added on to the home, which is located between the old racetrack and the county fairgrounds. Elmwood Grade School was 1.3 miles from our home—road miles. A school bus picked us up at the intersection of South Walnut and Fairground roads, which was a third of a mile from our driveway.


The school was comprised of three grades: 4^th through 6^th. During the year I attended, 24 students were enrolled, six of whom were 6^th graders like me. Our teacher was Miss Coomber. I don’t remember her first name. I seem to recall that she was from Ohio, and possibly returned there after Elmwood closed. My classmates were Jean Wilhelms, Sandra Helms, Karen Otto, JoAnne Kaiser,  and Steve somebody whose family moved away the following year. 


The school had two entrance doors, one for girls, the other for boys. Both doors led to a narrow coat room, and upon looking to my left upon entering, I could see the girls coming in. I always wondered why we had separate doors since they both led to the same place. But other schools, such as Lincoln Grade School, which I attended from Kindergarten through the 5^th grade, had separate girls and boys entrances. Lincoln’s were on opposite sides of the building, and are probably still marked as such.  


Doors from the coat room led into the rest of the building, which was one room. Four rows of school desks six deep were on the right side of the room, from the rear perspective, and a circle of chairs was on the left side of the classroom. Along the front was Miss Coomber’s desk and a chalk board. 


A coal-burning pot-bellied stove sat in the middle of the room, and it was the job of the first 6^th-grade boy who arrived to build a fire on cold mornings. Most of the time that was me, and I enjoyed tending the fire. I think we lit crumpled-up newspapers or scrap paper to light the lumps of coal. In winter it took a while for the room to become warm, and I remember students working math problems while still wearing coats and gloves or mittens until 10:00 a.m. 


The building had no running water nor facilities. An outhouse stood on the east side of the yard toward the rear of the lot. I suppose a pump for water was located outside, but I don’t specifically remember. 

I carried a metal lunch bucket, which usually contained a sandwich (often peanut butter and honey), and maybe some fresh vegetables or fruit. The small thermos that fit in the top of the lunch bucket usually contained milk. We ate at our desks. 

On most days Miss Coomber would take one of the classes to the circle of chairs on the left side of the classroom for a lesson. I remember a specific English lesson she taught to the 4th graders while the rest of us remained at our desks working on an assignment. I could hear the lesson, of course, and it served as a god refresher and foundation for higher-graded English homework I'd be assigned later. As a result, I felt that I learned more in 6th grade than I did in the two school years preceding or following it. 

During these times while our teacher was busy at the side of the room with another class, we were free to walk around the classroom provided we were asking a classmate how to calculate a math problem, for example. This freedom was violated once in a while, as one might expect, but not too often. 


Recesses were enjoyable with the entire student body participating in games in the yard on the east side of the building. We probably played several, but I remember only pump pump pull away, similar if not identical to capture the flag. 


No sidewalk led to the building, and depressions formed in the earth in front of the steps leading to the doors. In rainy weather, they filled with water. On one day some of us thought it would be fun to wade in the puddles. Jean Wilhelms, assuming we’d get in trouble, sat on the steps and watched. Sure enough, we ended up in trouble sufficient to warrant a swat or two with the paddle kept by Miss Coombers for that purpose. 

Not many people can say they attended a one-room school, but I'm glad I did. 

Yellowstone National Park

31 July - 4 August 2019

It was one of those bucket-list items: a visit to Yellowstone. And this midwesterner enjoys watching the terrain and vegetation change as we travel west. Our route, which took us to the park from the south, led through the Wind River Indian Reservation and Grand Teton National Park.

29 July: Our car was loaded with camping equipment, and we missed the much easier trips we took in the small RVs we owned over a decade ago. This day we drove around 13 hours, ending the day in North Platte, Nebraska.

While anticipating the drive, I checked some web sites for the Wind River Reservation, and learned that Sacajawea (or Sacagawea) is buried there, or so some folks, including the Eastern Shoshone who inhabit the reservation, believe. The cemetery is only two miles off our route, so we stopped there.

Sacagawea—the most accepted spelling—is mentioned seventeen times in the Lewis & Clark journals. It’s spelled differently each time, but always with a letter G.

I read long ago that Sacagawea died during childbirth in South Dakota at the age of 25, and that’s consistent with Wikipedia. But since Native Americans didn’t keep written records, it’s difficult to be certain. In any event, an effort by suffragists to locate her remains was undertaken in the very early 1900s. Sacagawea captured their attention because she was allowed to vote during the Corps of Discovery’s expedition. A Dakota Sioux physician was hired to find Sacagawea’s remains. After visiting numerous tribes, he learned of a woman who had once lived on the Wind River Reservation, whose great granddaughter said spoke of a long trip with white men when she was young, and who had in her possession a Jefferson peace medal, which Lewis & Clark handed out to Native Americans they met. So it was concluded that the woman was Sacagawea. We figured that whether Sacagawea was indeed buried on the reservation, it was still a memorial to her and worthy of our visit.

On to Yellowstone National Park: We’ve seen videos and photos of geysers, bears, Bison, Elk, and other wildlife, but our initial impression of the park was a surprise. It is not nearly as open as the photos seem to imply; rather, the roads travel through forests composed mostly of Lodgepole Pine, and vistas are limited.

In the portions of the park we visited, which were in the southern half, open areas were found only near geysers or other thermal features and a few valleys. Herds of Bison and Elk can be found in two valleys: Hayden and Lamar Valleys although the latter species can be seen elsewhere such as within a few yards of our campsite in Grant Village.

The park is huge—the caldera alone is the size of the State of Rhode Island—and the maximum speed limit is 45 mph, probably to safeguard wildlife as well as other visitors. As a result, a visit to the park results in a lot of driving, and it takes time to get where one’s going.

The first day, 31 August, we set up camp, and then enjoyed one another’s company for a while. We visited the nearby West Thumb Geyser Basin, which offered our first look at the park’s thermal features. Since the best time to see large mammals was at dawn or dusk, we drove to Hayden Valley where we watched a herd of a hundred or more Bison.  Some of them crossed the road, blocking traffic and creating long lines of stopped vehicles. A while later a herd of over 70 Elk emerged from trees across the valley.

Cold Water: Bathrooms in our campground, and I suspect others as well, offered cold water only. Hot water was available in the shower building, but the sinks in the same facility had only cold water. Twice I washed my hair and shaved in cold water. It wasn’t fun but not nearly as uncomfortable as I imagined.

Weather: During the course of a typical July or August day the temperature varies around 40-degrees, dropping from a high in the 80s in afternoons to overnight lows in the low- to mid-40s, and lows in the 30s are common. Because the atmosphere is thinner in the park—our campground was at 7800 feet in elevation—the sun feels more intense than at lower elevations. Sunny afternoons were uncomfortably warm, but around bed-time our sleeping bags were welcome sources of warmth. All of us were cold overnight even with sleeping bags rated at 20 or 30 degrees. Apparently such ratings are only reference points. I awoke several times because my head was cold, but eventually found that wrapping my poncho liner around my head kept me warmer. My wife and I took along yoga mats that we placed beneath our air mattresses as a form of insulation from the ground. The tent floor beneath the yoga mats was colder than above the mats (between the mats and our air mattresses) so it helped a bit.

Brochures and web sites advise carrying lip balm and plenty of water, and we found that to be valid advice; the air is dry at Yellowstone.

The next morning, 1 August, we made breakfast in our respective campsites, then convoyed to Old Faithful, which was erupting as we arrived. While waiting for the next eruption, I spotted a female Mountain Bluebird, and a male Western Tanager in a tree before us. I’d seen both species only once before. About a thousand visitors lined a semicircular walkway with benches to view the next eruption.

While in the vicinity we watched Old Faithful erupt four times. We also had lunch in the nearby cafeteria, and explored the area including the historic Old Faithful Inn. 

Cell Phone Service: We were warned that cell phone service would be spotty or poor, and we found it to be nonexistent. It was both a hindrance and a convenience. We noticed that a lot fewer folks had their heads down staring at their phones, and in restaurants, people looked at one another.

Bears: We didn’t see bears, although our son and family who arrived a few days before we did saw a mama and two cubs. But we obeyed regulations governing the cleanliness of our campsites. No food items, coolers, or even water containers—I guess to bears they look like food containers—were to be left in unoccupied campsites, so each day we loaded everything except our tents, luggage pack packs, sleeping bags, and lawn chairs into our cars. That meant that we didn’t have room for back-seat passengers, and each time we left the campground we traveled in a three-vehicle convoy. Communication between cars would have been nice. In hindsight, FRS (Family Radio Service) two-way radios, at least one per car, would have been nice to have.

2 August: We left the campground after breakfast, heading to the Grand Prismatic Spring, the most colorful thermal feature of the park. We hiked the provided boardwalk, and marveled at the colorful hot spring.

Crowds and Parking: The most popular attraction at Yellowstone is Old faithful, and the area offers plenty of parking. But other attractions had a lot less such as the Grand Prismatic Spring, which may be among the next most popular park features. Waiting in line to enter the parking lot, and then finding a parking spot once there was not fun. Plenty of folks parked along the main road, then walked in. Perhaps these areas are less busy once school starts, but then the nights can be much colder. During these times when NPS budgets are shrinking, this is something visitors have to deal with.

The next stop was a swimming hole, where the kids spent time in the water. Autumn spent time with 7-year-old Miranda, and they seemed to bond during their time in the water.

3 August: This was Casey’s birthday, and he was given the opportunity to pick out the day’s adventure, which consisted of hiking the Elephant Back Trail. It led through woods and up a mountain with a crest near 8500 feet. The top provided a great view of Yellowstone Lake. 

4 August: Our day of departure. We began the 1600-mile trip back home, passing once again through Grand Teton National Park and the Wind River Indian Reservation. Lonnie and I stopped that night in Sidney, Nebraska.

5 August: Continuing the drive through Nebraska, thirteen miles of Iowa, and into Missouri, where we checked into a room in Columbia.

6 August: An easy drive back home.

I can’t leave this topic without mentioning our trusty, old Coleman Camp Stove. I bought it in 1978, and used it quite a bit over the years including making tea and preparing meals at Yellowstone.

Pristine Forests of the Shawnee

On a whim Lonnie and I ventured to southern Illinois where we spent a night in a cabin at Giant City State Park.

After dark I stood on the road outside our cabin and played the songs of Barred Owls, Great Horned Owls, Screech Owls, Whip-poor-wills, and Chuck Will's Widows.  Barred Owls responded first followed by Great Horned Owls. Screech Owls were the last to respond.

The next morning after breakfast we walked the park's Indian Creek Trail, hiking through mature, climax-deciduous forest.  We spotted a Tulip Poplar, Liriodendron tulipifera, that was well over 100-feet in height, the tallest tree species that occurs east of the Mississippi River, that is if they germinate and grow in optimum habitat--forested valleys where more moisture is available.

While crossing a creek with crystal clear water, Lonnie asked me why we don't have streams that clear where we live.  The answer involves two factors: first, streams in the Shawnee National Forest are more likely to have rock bottoms; and second, forests, I learned in college, produce the cleanest runoff water. Rain drops first strike a succession of tree leaves on their way to the forest floor where they land with less impact on a layer of leaves from the previous growing season. In comparison, much of the watershed of the Kaskaskia River, which runs through our home county, is farmland with lots of exposed soil that finds its way into streams, rivers, and lakes.

Later in the day we visited the Bald Knob Cross near Alto Pass. Throughout the day we passed through extensive mature forestlands, which I find spiritually cleansing. I found myself missing the relatively pristine mature forests of the Shawnee National Forest, where I spent a lot of time while attending SIU-Carbondale.  

The Farm Pond: An Environmental Analogy

While attending a community college in my hometown of Freeport, Illinois, I took two classes from the same teacher, a man named Keith Blackmore, who was an inspiration for me as I was beginning development as a naturalist.

One day during a series of environmental lessons in Ecology class, he told us the tale of a farmer who had a pond on his land from which his cattle drank. One day he noticed an aquatic plant floating on the surface of his pond. He researched the plant and learned that it doubled in size every day, and getting rid of it would take several days. The plant would also preclude his cattle from drinking. But it was small and his cattle had plenty of space to drink so he went on to other tasks.

A few days later he noticed that the plant was quite a bit larger, covering a greater portion of his pond, but it didn't block his cattle from drinking, so he once again ignored it.

Then one day he was surprised to see that the plant covered half of the pond's surface, and the next day his cattle would not be able to drink. He had ignored the aquatic plant until it became too late.

That's where we are with several environmental issues. Here are just a few.

- Overpopulation: We are crowding out numerous species of wildlife; polluting the air, soil, and water; and run the risk one day of running out of natural resources, particularly food and water. (Keith Blackmore's tongue-in-cheek solution for overpopulation was death for parking violations. But he added that no-one would listen to him.)

- The world's overuse of plastic: A floating pile of plastic garbage lies between California and the Hawaiian Islands that is as large as the State of Texas. But it's cheaper to continue using plastic bags for groceries than environmentally sustainable paper bags, to choose one of numerous examples, so we'll continue using plastic. Besides, the oceans are much larger than Texas.

- Global warming: The research of 96% of the world's scientists is not sufficient to spur action on the part of global warming deniers. Sadly this includes the United States Congress and the Administration.

We are the farmer, and the aquatic plant becomes larger every day that we do nothing. We ignore it at our peril.

In the same Ecology class we learned the requirements for life as we know it. The first was that a planet needs to be the right distance from its sun to sustain liquid water. Next was an atmosphere, followed by plant life. The final requirement was that the dominant form of life must be smart enough to avoid destroying the planet. We haven't shown that we're that smart yet.

A Girl Named Tran Ngoc Bich

Yesterday I attended the Veterans Day assembly at Granddaughter Autumn's school in south St. Louis. Afterward I was invited to address the classes in Autumn's wing of the building—the PEGS students. I wasn't sure what to share with them since they’re still kids, so I told them a true story about Tran Ngoc Bich, a girl who worked in our Dau Tieng mess hall who was their age, thinking they could relate to her more so than me.

Tran Ngoc Bich and I became friends while I was one of the walking wounded in August 68. After my book was published, I received a package in the mail. It was a paperback book sent by the author with a note that read, "Look on page 144." Okay, I thought, here’s someone who wants to argue with something I wrote." But I looked anyway, and there to my surprise was a photo of the same girl! I called him and over the next few months we exchanged emails, and he related her story.

It begins when Bich was 11. She lived in a brick house two doors from Dau Tieng's main gate. Her dad was, so I was told, a French foreman in the Michelin Rubber plantation. So Bich, pronounced "Bic" like the pen, as she was informally known, was half French.

Because she lived so close to the main gate, she passed it regularly, and came to recognize the Military Police guards who manned the gate. One day she spoke to one of them: "Don't go in the village today. Boocoo VC."

When the MP was relieved at the gate, he told his captain what he'd heard. "Where did you hear that?" "It was this kid, a girl who lives near the gate."

A few days later Bich told the MP about more VC activities in and around Dau Tieng, and based on what she reported, they planned ambushes in town. (I didn't know they did that, but the guy told me that they did.) A rock wall extended from the gate around that section of the camp’s perimeter, and a row of shrubs was in front of it. Bich would slip behind the shrubs, and sit on the wall, then relay what she knew of Viet Cong activities in and around the village.

Some time later Bich began accompanying the MPs on operations around the village as they captured and questioned VC suspects, serving as an interpreter since none of the MPs spoke Vietnamese.

The MP commander began worrying about her safety if it became known that she was aiding the Americans, so they moved her onto the base. She continued serving as an interpreter, and the Americans learned to trust her. On her own initiative she positioned herself on several occasions near the prisoner of war compound, and eavesdropped on their conversations. Then she told the MPs who to keep and who to let go. And they did what she told them!

This went on for several months, but then Bich went through puberty, and the MP captain, recognizing that it wasn't good for a pubescent teenager to live with lonely GIs, sent her home. But to compensate her, he got her a job in a mess hall elsewhere in the base camp--the one I walked into after being wounded on 19 August of that year.  

I wrote about Bich in On Point, but definitely did not know of her participation with the MPs, and she didn't tell me. Our company area had 7 or 8 walking wounded at the time, and we hung out in the mess hall because it was a lot cooler than our tents, which baked in the sun and were stifling.

Bich began teasing me, and when I wasn't there she asked the others about me. If I arrived late, she would meet me at the door, escort me to a chair she reserved for me, then bring me a glass of lemonade or fruit juice. Soon she began giving me photos of herself and writing me notes. I answered them at night, and handed her my replies when she arrived for work the next morning. I knew her for about two months, and during that time I held her hand on two occasions while sharing a bunker with her and the other mess hall workers during mortar attacks. She accompanied me to the air strip when my tour was over, the only person to do so. I kissed her good-bye, the only time I did so, and we wrote one another for the next 3 1/2 years. Of course she didn't have money for postage, so she talked various GIs into placing her envelope into one of their own, and writing "free" in place of the stamp (soldiers had free postage privileges). So every two or three weeks I received a letter from a soldier I didn't know, and inside would be an envelope from Bich.

Then we lost contact. It was around the time that our battalion left Vietnam, and the war was beginning to wind down. I've always wondered what happened to her. It's possible that the area VC executed her for her role in helping the Americans identify them. It's also possible that she spent time in a reeducation camp. The last time I heard from her, she was in Saigon. I hope that she was smart enough to stay there where no-one knew her history. I like to think that she stayed away from Dau Tieng and is a grandmother today. 

Tran Ngoc Bich and me, September 1968

Bich, left, with a friend

Tran Ngoc Bich about 2 years after I returned home