Wendell Affield - Author / Chickenhouse Chronicles

I stood in the rain this morning and listened to the minister outshout Herefords and Angus cows across the fence. Apparently some calves had wandered off, the moms lowing and the calves replying.

It’s natural on Memorial Day to remember back, and as the dripping flag fluttered I recalled the first military cemetery I visited almost fifty years ago.

In 1966 I was a kid fresh off the farm in northern Minnesota on a few days of R&R in the Philippines. I spent an afternoon at the Manila American Cemetery. I recall how shocked I was to see more than 17,000 white crosses set in perfect symmetry; astonished at the more than 36,000 missing in action (MIA) names chiseled into marble walls. http://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries-memorials/pacific/manila-american-cemetery#.VWPFD03bKUk

As manure smell wafted across the graves of our little cemetery, I thought about a memorial service I attended two years later in Vietnam on the shore of the South China Sea. Those boys had been sent home to cemeteries like the one I was standing in this morning.

As taps echoed through lilac blossoms and budding oak leaves I studied the graves for a moment. I think our family plot is pretty representative of sacrifices made for our freedom. My grandfather who served in WWI and WWII. My stepfather, who served in WWII. My brother, who died when his Navy plane crashed at sea off the coast of Africa while on a training flight. One day another flag will wave in the breeze when I join them.

It’s sad how we so often let everyday events obscure our past. I received an email message from one of my brother’s crewmates that April 26 was the 37th anniversary of Randolph Leonard Affield’s death in a plane crash, bodies lost at sea. I knew that but had forgotten.
In our family of nine children alliances formed between siblings. Randy and I had the same interests and were a few years apart in age.
As I work on the family memoir I recall small details–for example, we children slept in the unheated upstairs of the old farmhouse. After a supper of bean stew and white bread it was off to bed. The gas built up until I would cut a silent one then spit into the air. Randy would quickly pull the covers over his head. A few moments later he’d come out, gasping for air and swinging at me in the dark.
And in this spring time I recall us splashing after frogs and picking Mayflowers. Rest in Peace, Brother

I was honored to be guest speaker.
I was surprised at the large crowd on such an overcast windy morning. It was refreshing to see youth groups participating in the memorial service.
Bagley residents should be proud of the tribute they pay their veterans.

Click on the title and listen to the 11 minute talk.

Memorial Day Speech, PTSD and Writing our Stories

I am humbled by the comments I received after the ceremony.

On May 27, 2013 at 10:30AM, I am honored to be guest speaker for the American Legion, Bagley, Minnesota. Each year on the last Monday of May we honor the memory of those who have served our country and gone before us.

In the 1990s World War II veterans often stopped by to visit with me at Luekens Village Foods where I managed the butcher shop. Several times over the years, a veteran would begin sharing a story of trauma they had experienced during their war. More than once the person walked away, choked up, story unfinished. Today, I realize it was probably the anniversary date and they needed to share it with somebody. Sadly they are gone now. But I credit them with making me realize the importance of writing our stories.

I am currently working on a memoir about our family. On my last blog post, on my Chickenhouse Chronicle page, I spoke of a soldier standing in as one of the groomsmen in my grandparent’s wedding in 1917. The young man was killed in action on October 25, 1918, less than a month before World War One ended. This week I hope to do a bit of research and see if I can find any information on this forgotten soldier. Over the past two centuries, millions of men and women who served our country have died long after they returned home, taking their stories with them.

To today’s young veterans, I encourage you to write. Tell your stories. It is cathartic for the author and it opens a window through which one’s family can glimpse your experiences.

Three generations of veterans from my family are represented in Nebish Community Cemetery:

Randolph Leonard Affield, U.S. Navy, killed, lost at sea, 1951-1978

Herman Arthur Affield U.S. Army, World War II, 1916-1971

Henry O. Philips, U.S. Army World War I and World War II (maternal grandfather) 1894-1957

Each Memorial Day my family and I pay tribute—a few years ago my granddaughters were with us and this poem came to me about my brother who died so young, leaving two babies behind.

Memorial Day

She hop-scotches from etched stone to stone,

little sister in her wake, sunshine on her face

joyous at the lilacs, flags, and synthetic bouquets.

Spring brings accolades—melancholy pride.

Yet, each day, I grieve the day you died,

grieve at life you left behind—

You’ll never sit beneath budding oak, watch

ruby breasted bluebirds flash in flaxen dawn,

golden streaks above dewed meadows.

You’ll never walk your daughter down the aisle

or watch your granddaughter

gather blossoms of wild plums and trilliums.

She skips across your stone to me and asks,

“Papa is you sad?”

and offers me a purple sprig, with smile and out-stretched hand.

My Grandparents Wedding Photo

The wedding photo is interesting because the painting in the background, titled, “Portrait of a Young Girl,” by Simon Harmon Vedder, 1890, was passed down to my mother. Sadly, it had to be sold to settle her estate debt in 2010.

This weekend as I thumbed through a 1918 address book I realized that it was an alphabetical listing of the wedding gifts my grandparents had received at their wedding. My grandfather served in World War I and World War II. In this wedding picture the young men stand so tall and proud in their army uniforms. Within months of when the wedding photo is taken, one of these young men, Ira M. Dempsey, Johnstown, Pennsylvania, is killed in action.

I discovered that Ira M. Dempsey was twenty-six years old and KIA on 15 October 1918, twenty-seven days before the Armistice was signed. He is buried at Cambria, Pennsylvania beside his parents.

Perhaps because it’s May, Memorial Day, this entry jumped out at me. I am honored to be guest speaker at a local American Legion Memorial Service this spring. Perhaps it jumped out at me because suddenly I came face to face with one of my grandfather’s friends and almost one hundred years later I empathize with him, the angst he felt when he received the news that one of his groomsmen had been killed in action. As I speak this Memorial Day I will remember a smiling young man, frozen in a 1917 photograph who had less than a year to live.