A Visit with Lyman Parker

The door was ajar and I peeked in.
Sitting in his chair was Lyman Parker, television on, snacking on a bag of those 'airy' sunchips.
I'd walked through the halls of the old folks home and it was dinner time.
Lots of elderly residents were sitting around tables.
Like a restaurant, ...clean, ...respectable,
Each resident with a look of dignity about them but,
... but with something very noticeable ....missing.
Call it atmosphere, or ..."life" or "joy",
...there was a sense of boredom and dullness.
Of having been forgotten...
With some, they themselves have forgotten, ...events, ...faces, ...names...
Perhaps calling it a stockyard, or feedlot is too brutal for a cafeteria setting.
Get 'em in, ...fed, ...cleaned up and back to their rooms, IS the project for the day though.

Lyman was by himself, in his room.
I hadn't been to see him in a couple months.

At first glance, there's something a bit sad about a lifetime ...nearly over, ending up alone.
It almost seems tragic in our society, but there are millions of such stories.
A room with a chair, a bed ...and a television for company.
Of course, that's all some people need,
...for others, it's all that's left.

If one were to allow themselves to ponder about their own final days,
they'd probably envision a large bed in a comfortable home with loved ones gathered around. Regularly.

When he saw me, Lyman set his chips down and invited me in.
The awkwardness of not visiting for months soon left me as I offered to put away the food.
Nothing grand, just stuff I remember my Dad liked me to bring.
Sharp cheddar cheese, two apples, a bunch of grapes, and tiny candy bars.
I showed him the bag's contents as I placed it in his little refrigerator.
I had to explain about the apples.
They were Fuji apples, our family loved them.

Years ago, I'd bring similar tokens when visiting my parents.
My dad loved anything I brought until one day, he asked the apples' variety.
I said they were called "Fuji".
...and he'd banned them from his house, right on the spot.
I knew there was no point reasoning with him as I walked them back out to my van.
It did not matter the apples were probably locally grown, the name was enough.
Two and a half years in the South Pacific as a combat Marine, 3rd Division, Raider trained.
He wanted no part of anything "Japanese".

Afterwards, in order to bring them in the house, I'd invented "a little white lie".
My mom was willing... but never would have crossed my dad on her own.
We just had to make sure those tiny stickers naming the fruit were removed.
I said, "Guess what? I found a variety of apples named after your commanding officer."

("Major James Roosevelt", the President's son, served in the Marine Raiders.
The Raiders, formed in 1942, distinguished themselves in their 2 year history in the Pacific.
Later disbanded as a fighting unit by late 1944, were absorbed into other Marine units.
The Raider training received was a high point in my father's memory. My dad was 17, never met the man, never claimed to. Was probably never even on the same troop ship that transported them all to there destinies.)
But "Major Roosevelt" became the popular apple in the home.

*****

This visit wasn't all about me missing my dad, but was certainly in the back of my mind.
He'd died nearly 6 years ago, and Lyman Parker filled two empty places in my soul.

Lyman had been a World War 2 era military B-17 pilot awaiting orders to deploy to the Pacific.
Lucky or not, the war ended before he ever flew a war time mission over enemy territory.
But he was trained ...and ready.
Lyman said he felt badly about never actually doing anything for the war effort.
I assured him that his service was just as important.
Allowing ones self to be ready ...and waiting for his chance was needed just as much.
It was all a matter of timing.

*****

Those two 'empty spots' were voids left by my dad,
...and his best friend from Sonora high school, Rex Howell Miles
My dad enlisted in the Marine Corps ...and Rex went into the U.S. Army....
They were barely seventeen, needed signatures from a parent to go.
Imagine that ...in today's American culture.
My dad went to the South Pacific, ...Guam, Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima.

Rex Miles, I know only a little about,
...from stories my dad had told over the years,
...and from his 1955 obituary, clipped out of Sonora's local paper.
Rex's brothers never talked about him, to me..
I was just that little reminder of their dead brother.
I knew them by sight, even went to school with some of their kids.
Small towns are like that.
The family was Jehovah's Witnesses and Rex was the patriotic black sheep.

Sgt. Rex Howell Miles saw action in the Battle of the Bulge among other WW2 adventures.
He used his G.I. Bill benefits to learn to fly at Columbia airport after the war.
Owned his own plane, which I'd seen many times in a rundown garage near the airport.
With it's wings removed so it could fit inside the building, it sat there, silently waiting.
As a 5 or 6 year old, in the late 1950's, early 1960's,
I'd rubbed dirt off the old garage's window panes many times,
Looking in at the dusty relic...and dreamt about flying.

Fixing up and flying Rex's old Aeronca Chief could keep a kid's imagination busy for hours.
As Lyman reflected on his early flight training, he mentioned an "Aeronca".
One of the early aircraft used as trainers.
To get the basics of flying committed to "second nature".

In Rex's plane, I found out much later from a potential buyer,
The bigger engine barely fit the airframe and modifications had been done to the cowling.
A hot rod airplane with that modified crop duster prop?
The engine and prop could make it do things my Dad said shouldn't be tried while flying.

Dad told me, sometimes while flying together, Rex would say to him,
''Do something crazy and let me see if I can get us out of it."
Dad said he was never so adventurous as to test Rex's limits.
Common sense ...at 10,000 ft. seemed a better choice.
My dad learned to fly along with Rex but never got a license, who'd stayed in the Army Reserves.
Partly because of the extra $55.00 a month the Gov't offered.
Nice pocket money for a bachelor in his mid to late twenties.

*****

Then there arose this nasty little business of a conflict in a place called Korea.
Rex was called up right away and as a pilot, he was perfect for flying Recon or as a spotter.
He lasted 8 months.
The only report was that another aircraft saw his plane go down and there was a visible fire.
Orders were, if you survived such a crash landing, burn the plane and it's contents.
Often there was no need to "start" a fire, the impact took care of that for you.
Rex was declared "Missing in Action".
About a year later, December 31, 1953, he was moved to the "Killed in Action" list.
Sometimes, ...but not often, government paper work is that easy.
Nothing was ever recovered.

Fifty six years later... somewhere in a far off land, in an overgrown ravine,
...or a field ...or mountainside,
Lies what's left of a scorched U. S. Army recon aircraft.
...and two young, well trained men. A pilot and a spotter.
...a story repeated too many times, too many places.
Families... and friends grieve... not knowing.
Ever.
Their loved one merely becomes a face to remember on a mantle,
and a statistic forgotten.
And their name becomes just another one engraved on marble in the local Veteran's Memorial.

Six months after the efficient paperwork, I was born ...and was named after him.
I've always felt a connection to my dad's best friend.
I've always felt a need to honor his name.

*****

Lyman and I chat... mostly about family... and the current news and events.
Or life's early adventures ...
Even with us being from different generations,
we can both look back to when we didn't wake up with achy joints.

Choices made.
Good times,
...regrets.
We talked about our friends and ward members.
There were only two of us in the room, two chairs.
But as we talked, the room filled with people, ... not tangible or visible.

Lyman tells me about his pilot training in 1943-45.
...and the various aircraft he'd been in.
The Aeronca Chief. The BT-13s, B-25s, B-26s. The B-17s.
The B-29s he was to start training in, in Roswell, New Mexico.
He can list off names of military friends lost while training.
Dying ....during the training.
Now ...that seems like a hollow sacrifice...
I notice Lyman's far away look, ...perhaps, visualizing them the last time they spoke.

He reminisces ... about his lovely wife, Rose and how much he misses her.
He tells me about how and when they'd met.
She'd tearfully sent a suitor off to an Academy, a girlfriend encouraged her to go to a dance.
Lyman met Rose at that dance.
Held at the Donsonte Hall, (sp) near Logan, Utah, where many such events were held.
He courted her... and they were married in 3 weeks in the Logan Temple.
Marriage during the war years ...while in flight school, when everything seems uncertain,
...accelerated and amplified connections of the heart.

All the travel to different locations...
to expand his breadth of flight training.
Chickasaw, Oklahoma, ... Sherman, and Waco, Texas.
Life was young and exciting.

It was in Sherman where he was flying BT-13s, and they developed "the signal".
When he was flying at night and knew he was passing overhead, near where she stayed,
he'd give a simple Morse Code signal by revving the throttle.
"Short, l-o-n-g, short" or "dit... dah... dit"
It was his signal to her ..."R"... for Rose.
She'd know he was overhead and doing OK.
Men and women, then, seemed to have more interest in gritting out relationships.
than the next generation.
More of a sense of commitment.
Maybe I'm wrong.
I'd like to think it could still be that way.

He talks about his son, Randall, who also preceded him in death.
We review a couple of their family photos.
Pictures of all the priesthood ordinations together, mounted on the wall.
Proud father and son,
...."parents should not outlive their children" ... comes to our lips at about the same time.
I am no replacement for his son, in my mind...
But in a way ...he soothes my feelings about not being able to go visit or call my dad.

You know... it's not that fun to bury a parent either.
But most people have to experience it.

It's somewhat comforting to know that even someone you look to as older and wiser,
shares similar feelings of...
"...if I'd only done ...such and such..."
During some phase of life.

Ultimately, we all hang our hats on a very little nail...
...that we, ourselves, drive in the wall.
It's called "our life" ...and we own it.
Like it or not.
Sometimes it doesn't look like much when we consider what we did with our time.
And we'll beg for mercy from a divine creator and Saviour who dealt with much larger nails.

Only a few other mementos are mounted on his wall...
Eighty plus years, and there are many more things framed ...in his memories,
than on the wall...

I'm staring hard at a fifty-fifth birthday in a couple months and know the feeling.
I gave up on having a wall. My stuff is in some boxes.

As I leave, ...the room seems ... full.
Of people.
Of memories.
A friendship, needed by us both, is strengthened.

I see only two chairs,
One smile.
But I know there are more.

...today's Title of Liberty

I observed a series of vivid photos taken of a graveside military funeral.
The photos spoke of the soberness of the ceremony.
Crisply uniformed soldiers of the military funeral services detail.
Lifting and moving a flag draped coffin with the greatest of respect.
Pictures of what appeared to be family, friends standing, trying to be strong.
Seeing their loved one off, on that eternal journey.

Our eyes are always drawn to the flag, it's brilliant colors.
Performing it's own task that day of representing the deep meaning of the event.
The phrase "Title of Liberty" comes to mind.

Some of us observers may not have thought much beyond the pictures.
Beneath the flag were the mortal remains of perhaps a young man or woman.
One who felt the call of duty.
Felt the love of country to willingly place him or herself in personal danger.

Or, it might have been the remains of one of America's old warriors.
Another time, another conflict somewhere early in his life.
He'd had the good fortune to survive, to come home and live his life as he chose.
Perhaps a very normal life.
A career, a wife and kids, grandkids.
He might have been the man across the street who waved when he mowed his lawn.

********

An ancient record contains more of the story behind the "Title of Liberty".
In it, a valiant leader rallies his faltering fellow countrymen.
To stand and fight against an overwhelming enemy ...or perish.
He tore a large piece from his coat or cape and wrote these words,
placing it upon a pole, for all to see.

"In memory of our God, our religion, and freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children."

This event took place on this continent, about 73 years before Christ's birth.
Find it in The Book of Mormon, page 323. (Alma chap. 46)
Could this not be something from today's headlines?
Could there be anything more important than what he wrote upon that cloth?

********

I will always remember my dad's flag draped coffin.
I was 48.
My dad had lived to 78.
My parents had just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.
We knew he was about done.
Failing fast.
He had instilled in me a love of country.
A love and respect for the flag.

Our early lives were very different.

At 17, I was driving my 1962 Dodge truck around, listening to 8 track tapes.
The farthest from home I'd been was Phoenix, AZ.

When my dad was 17 he was visiting far off, exotic places.
Compliments of the United States Marine Corps.
Guam.
Guadalcanal.
Iwo Jima.
Well, he was 19 and a half when he went ashore, February 1945, at Iwo Jima.
With a bunch of his friends.
Some of them lived, and I got to talk to them over the years.
I called a couple of them and let them know the day Dad died.
Old warriors.

I've tried to help Boy Scouts...
...and my daughters understand what the flag represents.

Once I was with my visiting daughter, Rachel, at a Swap Meet.
Swap Meets are an interesting hodge podge of people, cultures ...and junk.
Some good junk, lots of bad junk.
We wandered by table after table heaped with stuff.

One item visually jumped out at me.
An American flag, unfolded and mixed in with a lot of other clutter.
Treated like an old towel or blanket.
To the table's 'proprietors', it meant nothing, amongst all the other items.
Perhaps hundreds of people had walked by, not noticing it.

I removed it from the pile and gave it a good shake.
Asked Rachel to help me fold it.
"Just follow my movements."
Years of showing Scouts how to care for and fold the flag made it easy.
Rachel was great.
The older Mexican gentleman who "owned" it, or owned the table ...watched.
Closely.
Some people stopped and watched the folding.
No more than a dozen or so.

But that day they saw, close up, an American flag being folded with respect.
By two, born and bred, Americans.
The older man, in broken english said the word "soldier" with a questioning voice.
"American Boy Scout" was my answer.

I laid the now properly folded flag back on the table.
Prominently.

I could have bought it, carried it away under my arm, but it had a job to do.
It now rested there on his table as a symbol.
A symbol of the very freedoms he was enjoying that day.
Something that is not purchased with coin and currency.

That folded flag meant more to me than all the red, white and green flags displayed.
Flags with an eagle holding a serpent in it's grasp.
Flags they were using for atmosphere and ...shade, of all things.

********

We don't usually know who's funeral it is in photos, nor is it important.
We should remember though, that somewhere, sometime, somehow the person stepped up.
To make a difference.
A contribution.
Of self.
The person may have traded his future for something he felt.

We are enjoying our "todays" because others gave up their "tomorrows".