Branson In The Fall

I am sitting at the desk in the spacious duplex condo time share a friend of a friend allowed us to rent this week.  Our lifelong friends Mike and Jodi Sala traveled up with us and are occupying the other unit.  Our unit is on a mountaintop near Table Rock Lake about 15 minutes south of Branson.  Finding the condo was a trial.  The place is built on very rugged topography accessible only by a maze of near vertical slope two lane roads, confusing intersections and unmarked streets.  It even managed to confuse our GPS.

Today, I am in the unusual position of taking a vacation from our vacation.  I have done this before on cruises.  When you get so tired or are having so much pain that you aren't enjoying yourself a rest is in order.  I reached that point yesterday and declared today a personal rest day.  The rest of the crew headed out over an hour ago for a scenic train ride and in all likelihood a late lunch at Paula Deen's.

To keep myself occupied today while the others are gone, I set up my little jewel of a Japanese portable ham radio on the coffee table attached to an expedient antenna draped over the beams of our patio.  By midday, I had talked to Texas, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, Illinois, Nevada, California and Alberta, Canada to name a few on only 5 watts of power.  This is called operating QRP (low power).  It takes a lot of skill and patience to make long range contacts using half the input power of an average cell phone charger.  The average ham radio puts out about one hundred watts and it is not unusual to hear guys running over a kilowatt.

So far we have had a great time.  On the way up we stopped at Clanton's Restaurant in Vinita, Oklahoma for lunch. We split one of their giant chicken fried steaks which have consistently been voted the best in Oklahoma.  Sheila even threw caution to the wind and ordered their homemade blackberry cobbler with two scoops of ice cream.  It was delicious.

Tuesday, we had lunch at the main dining room of College of the
Ozarks.  This is not a college cafeteria.  It is a very upscale restaurant run by the college and staffed by the students.  Much of the food comes from the University's own student run farms.  The food was fabulous and the prices were quite reasonable given the quality and service. The whole places was a breath of fresh air.  The student/staff were all friendly, well groomed and seemingly happy in their work.  No bad attitudes here.  And it showed in the food.  Our meals were every bit as good as those from any upscale restaurant and made all the better by the great attitudes on the part of the staff.

After lunch, we attended a student production honoring Viet Nam veterans.  It couldn't be called professional exactly even though the players were very talented and the young lady playing an Army Nurse sang like an angel.  I almost broke up when she sang a verse of "Leavin' On A Jet Plane" acapella. That song has special meaning for the guys of our generation who time and again boarded planes wondering if it was a one way ticket.

But, whatever this production lacked in sophistication it was made up in spades by their willingness to speak the truth about the Viet Nam war and our nations shameful treatment of Viet Nam veterans.  My cynical mind turned critical very quickly when they began telling the stories.  I caught myself thinking, "That scene was taken straight out of "We Were Soldiers Once" and that one was straight out of "China Beach."  And then it hit me that I was forgetting that those story lines were based on real events lived out by real people during the war.  And then it hit me even harder that over fifty years later these big hearted, well meaning kids were taking the time and trouble to tell my generation's story, a story almost completely unheard by their generation.  Lack of sophistication aside, the production was deeply moving.  Many in the audience wept quietly as the stories unfolded.

Wednesday, we had lunch at place that successfully moved from the main street  of Haskell, Oklahoma to the main street of Branson.   Mike and Jodi knew the owners and often ate there when they were in Haskell. They are apparently making good in Branson.  They've won multiple awards for their down home cooking, a couple of buses were parked out back and the wait for a table was over forty five minutes.

Last night we saw "Queen Esther."  I don't really know how to describe it.  I was skeptical about any show being worth sixty bucks a ticket but my skepticism vanished five minutes into the show.  The costumes were stunning, the scenery was breathtaking and the stagecraft/special effects were technically amazing.  The talent is world class.  Amazing talented, professional, legitimate theatrical voices performing powerfully and movingly.  The plot follows the Biblical narrative precisely. I was stunned by it all.  The theater seats over two thousand and every performance is sold out.  Buses from all over the middle of the nation were in the parking lot.  When it was over there was a massive traffic jam.  It took us nearly an hour to get back to the main streets.  I usually don't have much patience with big productions and big crowds.  Queen Esther was worth it.  I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Thursday, Sheila and the crew had a good time on the train despite some out of control children and
then thoroughly enjoyed their late lunch at Paula Deen's.  Paula Deen is the reigning grand dame of Southern Cooking and if the chicken wing and butter cake Sheila slipped into her purse to bring back to me was an example the quality of the food has not suffered in the translation from South Carolina to Southern Missouri.  Sadly, Mike was in a bit of pain by the time they got back and both Mike and Jodi were worn out.  They went straight to bed more or less.  

By Friday morning Mike and I were ready to come home.  We were up early, had a quick breakfast of toast, yogurt and coffee, packed our things and headed out.  By mid-afternoon we were back in Tulsa.  It has been a good trip.  Good food, visiting with old friends and seeing a few new things.  At our age, that is a great adventure.

Memorial Day 2023

Yesterday, Sheila and I made the annual trek to Sallisaw to decorate our family graves. As usual it was a sorrowful day somewhat ameliorated by the pleasure of seeing family and friends and a nice drive through the always beautiful Cookson Hills.

The American Memorial Day holiday began after the civil war as a way to remember our war dead. “Decoration Day,” another local holiday when all family graves were decorated was usually a separate event. But, over the years, they were commonly merged. I try to keep the two remembrances separate in my consideration of the day.

When we began decorating, I noticed that Sheila had chosen an otherwise nice red, white and blue bouquet marred by what I saw as a cheap plastic doo dad saying “Hero.” There were dozens of similar displays all over the cemetery since this one was one of the better displays being sold by Wal Mart this year. However, I couldn’t help but cringe over what dad would have thought of such a display.

Dad was a genuine hero. He had the medals and commendations to prove it. He started his war in Sicily, survived the bitter slog through Italy and the Anzio catastrophe to celebrate VE day deep in Germany. But, like many if not most of his generation, dad was quiet about his heroism. He never discussed it. Once, when I was a child, I found his medals. I asked him about the Bronze Star. In his typical shy, modest manner he just said, “Aw shucks. They gave those things away with Wheaties.” It was many years before I learned that they don’t award the Bronze Star for trivial reasons.

But, dad was a hero in another way as well. Despite suffering from PTSD his entire life, he was a pillar of the community and our church and literally worked himself to death to give Mom and I a better life. Taking nothing away from his war time heroism, this second kind of heroism, the daily surrender of your life, your hopes and your ambitions to care for a family under always difficult and sometimes nearly impossible circumstances is truly awe inspiring.

Dad would not have been happy to see a little white plastic sign over his grave, calling him a “hero.” He was a hero, he knew it, I certainly knew it and that would have been enough for him. In my dad’s generation, real heroes didn’t brag and they certainly didn’t cheapen their sacrifice by letting anyone make merchandise of it.

As we were getting ready to leave, I reached in my pocket and realized I had no coins there. I don't know what I was thinking. I haven’t carried coins in years. So, I asked Sheila to dig around in her purse and find a penny for me. There is a tradition among veterans. When you visit another veterans grave, you leave a coin. A penny simply means that another veteran was there showing his respect. A nickle means that you served in boot camp with them. A dime means that you actually served with them at some point. A quarter means that you were there when they died.

A young army captain is buried near my families graves. He died in Viet Nam on my birthday in 1970 during a truly hairy mission trying to rescue a number of wounded that had been left behind by their retreating unit. The citation for his Silver Star, America’s second highest award for valor, says that he personally pulled two of the wounded back to safety and died with a third in his arms. That kind of selfless courage deserves to be remembered. In years past, I would I would often find other coins on his headstone. This year, there was only mine.

As we were driving home, Sheila remarked sadly, “When we’re gone, nobody will decorate their graves or ours.” She is right. The ungrateful generation after ours at best cares nothing for their heritage and at worst is ashamed of it. And even the fact that we are ashamed of them will mean nothing once we are gone.