I Cried on Memorial Day

On Memorial day I sat down with my morning newspaper, the Ft. Worth Star Telegram. I hadn't really expected to find anything worth reading in the front (National) section. I never do. I scan the headlines and make a decision whether or not it is worthwhile to read -- it usually is froth with liberal slants -- so I skip most of it. I go on to the Metro section and then to the New York Times Crossword. Something I have been doing for the last 40 years.

But on page 5A, I caught sight of a picture. A picture of a very grotesque-looking man. It intrigued me. The headline read, Wounded Marine Personified Courage.

The man's name was Sgt. Merlin German. The article talked about how Sgt. German was wounded in Iraq from a roadside bomb, burning 97 percent of his body.

I then glanced at the photo again. "Goodness!", I said to myself. "97% and he's still alive?" Then I read on about the three years after he came back where his battle to stay alive was being waged. He never surrendered to the pain of surgeries. He learned to live with it and smile and joke and make others laugh.

At the Brook Army Medical Hospital in San Antonio, Texas, he had skin graft, after skin graft. He had gone from a ventilator to breathing on his own. From communicating with his eyes or a nod - to talking. He had gone from being confined to a hospital isolation bed with his arms and legs suspended - so his skin grafts would take - to moving into his own house and sleeping in his own bed. He always rebounded. No one expected him to ever survive. He just wouldn't surrender.

But I suppose God had a better plan for Sgt. German. This very handsome physical fitness buff with his lady-killer smile, lost his last battle over a simple surgery to add skin under his lower lip. He died.

I was crushed! He was just 22. I sat and cried. The small picture among the print showed Sgt. German in military dress with his perfect face. The picture of a very determined, proud and patriotic man. The big picture didn't seem very grotesque at all.
www.merlinsmiracles.com

POLKA MASS AT HOLY TRINITY

Last Sunday around 7:20 a.m. I drove to the church where my parents were married, where I attended elementary school, received my second and third Sacrament in the Catholic Church, and where my parents are now buried. It is Holy Trinity Catholic Church situated on a hill in a community called (New) Corn Hill. If you are traveling north from Austin on I-35 just after Georgetown look to your right and you will see the twin spires.

The church was having their annual "Polka Mass". Now who doesn't love Polka music? When Polka music starts, everyone's feet start tapping (except those who have a tin ear) and you can spot them by the fact that they are not tapping their feet. But I digress. . . .

Making the final curve on the country road and just rounding the last hill, I spotted the parking lot where there must have been 1,000 cars glistening in the sun. I thought, "Oh, brother. I should have left earlier"! I found a slot to park my compact, low-gas-mileage car and hurried in to the church to find that it was packed.

I noted a relative of mine, and she scrunched over to make room. I squeezed in. I looked around to see if my sister and cousin had arrived. So, I just cooled my (new pea-green) heels (that matched my pea-green suit) and waited. They were late, but did find a spot near the Polka band and the Taylor, Texas Czech Choir from St. Mary's Church.

If you haven't been raised around Polka music, you won't get it. I think everyone really wants to dance when you hear that Polka. You can take just about any song and sing along with Polka accompaniment. It's so easy.

I looked around and saw so many, many faces that I know that I should know. Familiar faces - faces that have their roots in Eastern Europe. . . . the noses, the ears, the flat heads, those eyes. .

My People, I thought! This is it! When it's over, I'll have to go back to Honkeyville! I couldn't wait to say hello to some of my old comrades from elementary school. There was Eileen (Sladecek) Rosipal, Dorothy (Simek) Tomacek, Frank Foltyn, Annie Straka, Emil Danek, and Frankie Knapek. They had lost their quaint Czech accent. I wonder what they thought of me. I will never know, since not one of them asked me about myself. I had a million questions for them, but they had none for me. I should be sad and have my feelings hurt, I guess. But, that is the way it was. . . . It tells me that they couldn't have cared less. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

It was a very big deal to me, but to them, it was just another Sunday at Holy Trinity.