I had the good fortune to visit with the Marquis de Lafayette today, one of my favorite historical characters. He came to the Madison Hotel in Morristown for the 151st annual meeting of the Washington Association of New Jersey, where George Washington’s birthday is celebrated every year. 

Chuck Schwam, Executive Director of the American Friends of Lafayette, gave a lively and illuminating presentation on the life of this remarkable Frenchman who, at age 19, became a Major General in Washington’s Continental Army. 

Save the dates, Sunday, July 13 and Monday, July 14 for a grand celebration to be held in Morristown, NJ, commemorating the 200th anniversary of the General’s visit back to America, and in particular to Morristown, N.J. which took place on Bastille Day. July 14, 1825. Many cities will be celebrating his return. Lafayette came back to America at age 67 and planned to stay three months, but was here for thirteen months! America loved him. See at www.lafayette200.org. 

I just finished reading a remarkable book by Charles D. Hamlin, published in 2011 and entitled, “Fear No Evil, True Stories of the Mighty Eight.” Hamlin flew 35 bombing missions in World War II, as a member of the U.S. Army 8^th Air Corp, serving as a B-17 ball turret gunner. The average age of a crewmember was 21.

I came upon this paperback book at the Book Barn in Denville, New Jersey. Once a cow barn, it’s now a reader’s paradise, stocked to the brim with used books. What a unique place it is!  I’d just finished reading Twelve O’clock High by Beirne Lay and wanted to hear more from those brave pilots from WW II.

Containing more than 30 first accounts from crew members and others involved in the war, these stories are breathtaking, a testament to the brave men who flew these incredible bombers.

Each B-17 carried a crew of 10. In the late 40s, America lost 28,000 aircrew members in action, and 26,000 of these were in the 8th Army Air Corp.  The survival rate for the crew members on the B-17 was lower than 50%. 

Besides reading all the first-person accounts, I learned that an English fellow named Waddington came up with a creative idea. His manufacturing company, Waddington Ltd. perfected the technology of printing maps on silk; his map resembled a scarf, was durable and could be easily hidden by flight crew members if they were shot down.

My cousin Palmer Jeffries was a crew member on a B-17 during the war. Years later, he gave his scarf to his nephew, Mike, who was a high school history teacher.  It provided an accurate map, showing not only where things were, like train stations, but also the locations of “Safe Houses” where an escaped POW or downed airman could go for food and shelter.

Mike eventually gave his uncle’s scarf to me, and I recently presented it to my grandson, Matthew Bernard Giere, a fan of military history. 

By coincidence, Waddington Ltd. also held the U.K. license for the popular American board game, Monopoly. Since the International Red Cross packed this game into Care Packages for the men at P.O.W. camps, Waddington established a secret workshop on his company’s grounds, to have these maps and other creative escape items inserted into Monopoly playing pieces. 

Before taking off on their first mission, air crews were advised how to identify a “rigged” Monopoly set by means of a tiny red dot, cleverly disguised to look like an ordinary printing glitch and located in the corner of Free Parking.

I recently saw one of these Monopoly games at an airshow held at the Essex County Airport in NJ and was allowed to examine it to see how the ploy worked. Absolutely amazing!

When I think of the airmen who lives were sacrificed during our country’s wars, it humbles me. Bernie and I had friends who were killed during the Vietnam War. Two pilots were captured.

Veterans Day is a day of remembrance and gratitude not only for all veterans past and present who lived to tell their stories, but for all those airmen whose lives were sacrificed before they could tell us their stories. They certainly deserve our appreciation, too. Not just on Veterans Day but every day of the year.

 When you hear a plane soaring overhead, why not think of the men who flew those dangerous missions years ago? Reading their gripping stories will give you a heartfelt sense of gratitude, and a renewed realization of how their heroics helped to preserve our freedom.

Bernie and his “Bingle Jells” cake have the last laugh. It was his favorite Christmas greeting, especially to those who hadn’t heard it before. But we, his family had heard it each December, and then some. Boy, was he surprised to see it inscribed on top of a chocolate cake–one made just for him. It’s been 10 years since you’ve been with us my dear Bernard, but our love for you will last forever. Those years since July 31 of 2013 may have rushed on by, but our indelible memory of you remains constant. And isn’t that the way the Lord meant it to be; to leave a light still burning for your loved one who’ll follow in your footsteps? 

I was delighted to attend the Annual Honoree Banquet given by the ALS Ride for Life organization on Long Island. My son-in-law Tom Conigliaro is on my left and my granddaughter, Shannon Giere, on my right.

I’m standing with Tom Conigliaro at their silent auction table, and guess who’s with us in spirit?  Yes, the photo honors Bernie Giere who died 10 years ago, but who is still remembered by this wonderful group. The event highlighted photos all those former PALS (People with ALS) who had been helped by this great organization.

Won’t you help in finding a cure for ALS? 

Link: Rideforlife.networkforgood.com

Author, Jonathan Eig said of baseball great, Lou Gehrig:

“ALS is a disease of weakness, but Lou Gehrig’s disease is associated with strength—the strength of a dying man who said he felt lucky.” He wrote that Lou’s heroism transcended the game. After Lou was stricken with ALS, and in the weeks that followed his famous goodbye speech, he received over 30,000 letters of support.

June 2^, was designated as Lou Gehrig Day in 2002. It’s the date on which he became the Yankees starting first baseman and the day he died from ALS in 1941. He was only 38 years old. ALS breaks down nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord that make muscles work, leading to progressive paralysis and death.

One way to honor Lou and show you care is to donate to ALS. Help defy the odds by contributing to ALS Ride for Life, an organization which supported us when Bernie was stricken with this heartbreaking disease in 2012. Families living with ALS need to know someone out there supports finding a cure.

ALS Ride for Life
c/o Stony Brook University, HSC, L2, Room 106
Stony Brook, NY 11794-8231

On the last Monday in May, when Memorial Day arrives each year, I always remember the day Bernie and I were attending my cousin’s funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. James A. Palmer had been an Admiral in the U.S. Coast Guard, and this was my first visit to the historic national cemetery, our nation’s first. I was overcome with a sense of humility and pride to see 400,000 tombstones of veterans and their dependents lined up like soldiers, row upon row.

We were driving slowly behind my cousin’s casket which was carried on a Caisson driven oh so slowly by two horses when I noticed a section off to our left, and a tall white marble statue of a woman in a long cape and dress. Bernie and I stopped on the way back to examine this unique site. We found a bronze plaque beneath the statue read, “This monument was erected in 1938 and rededicated in 1971 to commemorate devoted service to country and humanity by Army, Navy and Air Force Nurses.”

The 11’ tall statue of white marble was created by sculptress Frances Rich in an art deco classicism style, and it represents the “Spirit of Nursing.” She seems to gaze reverently upon the 653 deceased nurses that lie before her.

I’d never met an army nurse until several years later, when I had the pleasure of meeting a nurse veteran at an American Legion Hall in Hampton Bays, where Bernie was speaking. I sat next to her in the audience and at first, she gave me pause. Here was a little bit of a gal, hunched over a wheelchair like a flower beat down from the rain. At second glance I noticed her wispy, white hair, how wave it lay, and the angle of her jaunty, red scarf, and I wondered if in her portrait I saw a trace of a style that once defined her as a pretty, young nurse. After Bernie was finished speaking, I moved closer to her and introduced myself. A little flower petal no more, she blossomed, turned toward me, shook my hand, and began to tell me about herself.

Mary Louise graduated from Mt. Sinai nursing school, went to college and nursing school, then joined the Army as a 2^nd Lieutenant and worked for a while at Pilgrim State Hospital, where she found it difficult dealing with soldiers with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. “They just threw themselves out the windows,” she said. “I knew that I couldn’t go on doing that, none of us were prepared. The war was on, with D-Day still ahead and the persistent problem of PTSD hadn’t been covered in nursing school, nor anywhere else, either, as far as I know.”

A sympathetic supervisor found her a spot with a unit of nurses from Indianapolis, who would be sailing from New York on the Leviathan to East Anglia, 80 miles north of London. She met the other nurses at the dock and was happy to hear her ship was the Leviathan because her mother had taken her to see the impressive ship enter New York on its maiden voyage years before. By the time they landed in England, the nurses knew each other well, and were attached to the 82^nd airborne, “That proud contingent of paratroopers that played such a pivotal role in the war,” she said.

“I’m a veteran and a widow of a veteran,” she added, “and I’m a member of the local VFW and the American Legion.” Mary Louise said the local paper had written an article about her. Oh, how wanted to learn more about her duties with the paratroopers, but time ran out. And as we left, I knew how lucky I was to have met this special lady, if only briefly; a woman who served her country during World War II and lived to talk about it.

Our war veterans, both men and women, have stories to tell that are a priceless part of our history, experiences that should be written down or recorded, lest they be lost forever.

On December 15, 2000, the U.S. Congress officially designated 3:00 p.m. local time on every Memorial Day, for all Americans, voluntarily and informally, to observe in their own way a moment of remembrance and respect, pausing from whatever they are doing for a moment of silence or listening to Taps.

The next time you watch a Memorial Day Parade, or hear Taps played, don’t forget to remember the nurses who played such a vital role in supporting our military personnel. That’s the least we can do.

When I began examining the piles of memorabilia I received from my cousin after my grandparents died, I discovered their memoirs and love letters from the late 1880s. The piles of newspaper articles, diaries, and photographs, led to even more gems. Hours of treasure hunting lay before me.

Grandma Palmer’s cookbook caught my eye. Worn out, but still alive it was full of all sorts of recipes and notes about homemade medicine concoctions and handy household hints a mother of four needed in-order to survive the rigors of child raising and housekeeping. She knew the Treatment for Worms and wrote it in pen, with a footnote: This prescription is used by U.S. Army Medical Faculty in the Philippines.

Brevity was one of her virtues. Warts disappear if you take garlic-parsley tablets. To make pretty walls, put pumice in the paint. Take saffron tea to clean kidneys. When I read her Recipe for Producing Eggs, written with a practiced hand, I had to laugh. I never thought chickens needed help, but I suppose they did.

Grandpa John called Grandma, Nannie, although her name was of Nancy Jane.  I noticed on their 1891 marriage license he’d tried to erase her name and write Nannie above it, but she crossed that out and corrected it…and him. She also assisted him when he became a doctor on horseback, mixing and labeling the medicines and inserting them into his saddlebags. Nannie ran their mercantile store when Grandpa John attended law school in another state, and she never once refused to help a neighbor who was in trouble.

Mothering meant no one was excluded from her love and care, not even when her sister Daisy Chester died, and she and Grandpa took in their 10-year-old nephew, Jesse, and raised him as their son until he joined the army. She and Grandpa also welcomed their oldest daughter Burleigh back into their home after she was divorced. Her two sons were like little brothers to my dad–the youngest Palmer child, and only boy.

Nannie was 70 years old and grey haired when I was born. Reading her memoirs gave me the gift of seeing her as she saw herself as a child, and as a young wife and mother—the grandmother I’d never known. How happy it made me to discover something we had in common: She’d been a teacher and so was I.

Nannie never talked about her past but always seemed interested in everyone else’s life.  She died when I was 13. Hers was the first funeral I ever attended; I was overwhelmed by all those people crowding into the funeral parlor, saddened by the loss of a great lady who died at 83. 

Among her papers I found a Mothers’ Day telegram she had saved, dated 1942. It was from Jesse.

To Mrs. J.W. Palmer, 901 South Vermont, Sedalia, Missouri

TO SOMEONE’S MOTHER, NOT MY VERY OWN, BUT ONE OF THE NICEST I’VE EVER KNOWN.

A Salute to Aunt Hazel and the BEEPS

I am writing about my dad’s family, the Palmers, from Sedalia, Missouri, and am amazed at the treasures I’ve found among the memorabilia I inherited. I’m sifting through stacks of articles, journals, newspaper articles, photos and memoirs dating from 1888-2002, a remarkable journey of discovery which I consider a blessing. 

Hazel was one of my dad’s 3 older sisters, the one who read aloud to him from the silent movie screens of the day when he had to sit on her lap to see the action. She was an unforgettable person then just as she is now, 21 years after her death.  

I remember the first time I heard Aunt Hazel give a speech. It was during her senatorial campaign 1958. She was the first woman from Missouri to ever seek national office, the U.S. Senate. There was only one woman serving there at the time, Margaret Chase Smith of Maine. 

It was in late summer when she spoke in my hometown, St. Louis.  I was 18, soon to head off to college as a freshman, and my aunt was a perky 54, speaking to an enthusiastic audience at the Chase Hotel ballroom, which I thought was an elegant backdrop for her.

Hazel wasn’t intimidated about running against a Democrat incumbent, Senator Stuart Symington.  “He’s a millionaire, a former Secretary of the Air Force, and I say, so what? Being Secretary of the Air Force makes him vulnerable and I can hardly wait to get to those vulnerable spots.” She didn’t have a chance, however, because he refused to debate her.

Miss Palmer the candidate, astonished me at the podium with her command of serious topics such as the strength of our country’s military capabilities, which she felt was being outpaced by the Russians. (The Soviets had launched Sputnik, the first artificial satellite to orbit the Earth, in October of 1957.) Hazel had once pointed out that the sputniks and nuclear weapons that any enemy might achieve in the long run, won’t be what destroys America. “It will be our lack of courage, self-reliance, and inner faith,” she said. 

Hazel projected energy and vitality when she spoke, as she had done often throughout the U.S. and Europe as national president of the Federation of Business and Professional Women’s Clubs of America. The well- known national organization, named the BPW, listed 175,000 members. When I was a kid, I used to refer to them as The Beeps. 

I never thought Aunt Hazel would lose the Nov. 2^nd election, but she did. She had beaten three men to win the primary and seemed invincible to me. It was a doubly painful loss, as her father, my grandpa, John Palmer, died the night before the election, at age 93.  A lifetime lawyer and a former U.S. Congressman, he was hoping to cast a vote for his daughter, but it was not to be. 

During her long, formidable career, Hazel campaigned to guarantee women’s legal rights. The Equal Rights Amendment was first introduced in Congress in 1923 and was kept alive through the years by enthusiasts like Hazel, who knew that legislation was the only way to guarantee permanency.  She was instrumental in getting it added to the Republican Party platform at two of their national conventions which helped to keep it in the limelight during the 50s and 60s.

Three fourths (38) of the states had to ratify the ERA, and there were many “protectionists” who were against it. As time passed, the amendment was reintroduced in Congress year after year to no avail. Today, the ERA still has not been formally instated as the 28^th Amendment of our Constitution, but in 2020, it moved closer to its goal.    

Hazel served on committees of three presidents, Eisenhower, Nixon, and Reagan. Among her papers, I’ve found telegrams, invitations, and letters from those former presidents, and it gives me a rush just to hold them as I slide them to plastic sheets for preservation. Hazel possessed a personal charm and gracious spirit which endeared her to all who knew her. 

Aunt Hazel was in law practice with my grandpa, John W. Palmer, in Sedalia, Mo.  She eventually became a judge and died in 2002, at the age of 99. Hazel was loving and kind–my inspiration, a woman who championed women’s rights before it became fashionable. 

My Aunt lived a long life but never married. When asked “Why?” by a reporter, she said, “Mister Right just never came along.”

A colleague remarked upon her retirement, “Judge Palmer set an example of female initiative and activity that would amaze the most energetic corporate CEO today.” When I read that, I wondered what man could ever have kept up with her.