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. 

On President’s Day, February 20, I attended the 149th Annual Meeting of the Washington Association of New Jersey, at the Madison Hotel in Morristown. I’ve been a member of this organization since I moved to New Jersey in 2014.

At the luncheon, I met a friendly group of Hessians who came to hear the guest speaker, Friederike Baer, talk about her new book, Hessians: German Soldiers in the American Revolutionary War. Out of the roughly 30,000 Hessians who came to America, approximately 5 to 6,000 settled here after the war.

How grand it was to talk to so many people who stopped by my book table to buy My Pilot during the social hour, before the luncheon commenced. What fun we had! Even George himself appeared to thank members and guests. New Jersey is home base for our country’s rich history of the Revolutionary War period, and I feel blessed to be a member of this notable organization.

Here’s some quotes from two of my favorite presidents.

Lincoln

“Most folks are as happy as they make up their mind to be.”

“Tact is the ability to describe others as they see themselves.”

“All rising to a great place is by a winding stair.”

“Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other thing.”

“You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

Washington

“If the freedom of speech is taken away then dumb and silent we may be led, like sheep to slaughter.”

“Few men have the virtue to withstand the highest bidder.”

“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.”

“Worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble. Truth will ultimately prevail where there are pains to bring it to light.”

Bernie and I were in Ephesus, Turkey, with Jim and Sandi, when our guide said, “Your Christ is under your feet!” We looked down and discovered a secret code, embedded in the wide, gray paving stones beneath our feet. I imagined that the apostle Paul—who preached on the steps of the amphitheater—walked around it and not over it as I did.

“It’s a pizza with eight slices,” said a boy bending down to touch it.

Our guide explained: “The capital letter I is a vertical line that means Jesus; the X means Christ; the circumference itself with a horizontal line running through it stands for Son; the Y symbolizes God, and the Greek S stands for Savior.”

Since that day, I’ve been more aware of the circles in my life. I think of a family circle of mourners,
who sit around the living room after the funeral. The members take up the slack, pulling the ring taut again.

I consider my church circle of fellowship and Bible study. When I hear Johnny Cash sing, I’m going to join that family circle at the throne,” I think of my loved ones who had preceded me to that glorious circle, and I am comforted.

I think of a round, a cycle, a compass, a halo, and a circle of friends. I think of them all, and especially the undercover Christian who carved the circle of Christ at Ephesus. I thank him for helping me see how our circle of Christianity spans many centuries, languages, and countries.

When I bought twelve hand-painted bulb shaped ornaments in a thrift shop for $ 1.00 I knew I’d found a treasure. The first orb showed a hand painted partridge sitting in a pear tree. The next ornament displayed two turtle doves. The rest followed, each one singing out its merriment to the last of the set: 12 Drummers Drumming.

I thought the Twelve Days of Christmas song was nothing more than a memory game for children and a reminder of the Epiphany—the number of days between Jesus’s birth and the arrival of the wise men. The lyrics didn’t make sense until I researched the song’s true purpose and found what some scholars believe was a secret teaching tool for Catholics, persecuted during the reign of King Henry V111 (1509-1547).

The partridge in a pear tree was Jesus Christ. The two turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments. Three French hens stood for faith, hope and love. The four calling birds were four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

The five gold rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament. The six geese a laying stood or the six days of creation. Seven swans a swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit—Prophesy, Serving, Teaching, Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership and Mercy.

The eight maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes. Nine ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit—Love-Joy-Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self-Control. The ten lords a leaping stood for the Ten Commandments. The eleven pipers pipping were the eleven faithful disciples. The twelve drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles’ Creed.

Now, when I sing the song with my 3 -year-old great-granddaughter, I’ll know what it’s all about. Someday, there will come a time when she’ll be able to understand the origin of the popular carol. She’ll then see how fortunate she is to live in a country where we don’t have to disguise our religious beliefs for fear of persecution.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I was rearranging my closet shelves last week, making way for my winter sweaters when I spied Bernie’s Pan Am white hat in a plastic bag, on the top shelf. I used a broom handle to gently coax the hat down—my reminder of our Halcyon Days of Yore. 

I buffed the black brim with oil, and straightened the Pan Am world globe insignia. The worn gold braid was still stretched around the black brim and attached by two gold, Pan Am little worlds the size of pennies. Bernie put on his white hat for the first time, 55 years ago. It’s hard to believe, but true. 

In 1967, in airports around the world, travelers knew and respected the Pan Am logo. I imagine they thought those pilots who wore the uniform were handsome, lucky fellows. I thought so, too.

Whenever I’m in an airport, I’m caught off guard when I cross paths with a pilot wearing standard airline attire: white shirt, black tie and trousers, shiny dress shoes, and shoulder chevrons to denote rank: four stripes for Captain, and three for First Officer, the same as Bernie once wore. 

It’s like a wake-up-call as I turn to watch the young man walk on, as Bernie did at 30, carrying his Pan Am flight bag with aplomb, walking on the balls of his feet, as he did on the day we met, when he looked as if he were moving to some jazzy internal tune.

Bernie was glad to be aboard a major airline after he returned from Vietnam. He was accepted by five airlines and decided to sign on with Pan Am, the company he jokingly referred to as, “The World’s Most Experienced”. 

I often think of the drama of Vietnam and what episodes came before the hat.  My history professor once said, War is the only chance a man has, to do something redeeming. I used to think Bernie’s war experiences defined him, but I see now that Vietnam wasn’t his only chance to prove himself; he had many chances after that, and Pan Am was chance number two.

I picked up a crew tag that drifted to the closet floor. It reads: Giere, May 16, destination #1057, Flight A310 F/O; home base JFK, employee number: 12421. I finger it gently and wonder why he saved this tag out of all the others. He’d been furloughed, or laid off, two times in his Pan Am career, and during those times he worked for the New York Air National Guard, never expecting Pan Am to recall again. But they did; it seemed too good to be true.

My Pilot flew for Pan Am again, as well as the Guard, during his days off. I think Bernie saved that little worn out tag because of what it meant to him: after two long furloughs it said: Welcome Back Bernie, We’ve Not Forgotten You, Here’s Another Chance with the World’s Most Experienced. 

The third call back was not a charm. It lasted less than a year. Pan Am went bankrupt, selling their international airplanes and crews to Delta Airlines. Bernie used to say, “I just took off my white hat and put on my black one.” Six years after that, Bernie retired from Delta.

Although carving out a new career in the Air National Guard was satisfying to him–something he was very proud of–Bernie always quipped, when asked about his Pan Am days, “It sure beat working for a living.”

by Sarajane Giere

I’d been using the Greek Myths as part of my 6^th grade reading program and was drawn to the intriguing country where these myths originated. In 1992, I asked my husband, Bernie and our long-time travel buddies, Sandi and Jim Knoch, if our next trip should be Greece. They loved the idea, especially since our husbands flew for Pan Am which made traveling on our airline passes a pleasure.

At the beginning of my Easter break we flew to the land of the ancients. We were a tight team of travelers. The trip over gave me more time to study the guidebook and choose the museums and ancient sites we should visit. That was my job, while Sandi’s was reserving the ship and local tours. Jim spoke French and Bernie, some pigeon German, and they both handled the money and rented the cars. We’d been around Europe often, but on this adventure, we let our guard down and it almost spoiled our trip.

The four of us spent two wonderful days exploring Athens in the hands of the Hilton’s driver, Peter a smart British chap whose wife was Greek. On our third day, our Mediterranean Cruise ship would be sailing at 3:00, and our plan was to visit the Athens Archeological Museum, then take a cab to the hotel, pick up our luggage and grab a taxi to the port city of Pireas to board our ship, the Stella Oceanis. I couldn’t wait.

At one o’clock, the four of us were having lunch at a café in Athens, across the street from the Athens National Archeological Museum. I didn’t want to miss this one. After a delicious lunch of Moussaka, and a glass of Ouzo, we had fun reliving our recent escapades.  Even though the museum was open from 9:00-8:00, we could see there were tourists gathered on the steps because the huge bronze doors were shut. The waiter said the museum employees had gone out on strike and probably wouldn’t open for another hour.

We’d come across these types of mini strikes before in Europe and decided to check out the gift store next door and wait it out. Thirty minutes later, at 1:30, the museum opened, and finally, we’d get to see artifacts from civilizations dating from 7 millennium to around 1050 B.C. Remarkable!

We joined the disgruntled visitors as they poured into the Archeological Museum’s lobby. The museum seemed intimidating at first, with its mob of visitors, long lines, and no directions or labels in English.

Undaunted, I said, “Let’s see if that guide over at the table can give us a personal tour—just the four of us.” Bernie inquired, the fee was reasonable, and we signed on.

“My name is Georgios, “the guide said.  He had an engaging smile and buoyant personality that put us at ease. He looked about 50 in his neat, tan uniform.  I could see his black curly hair peeping out from under his cap.

Hives of tourists gathered in front of the many exhibits. Georgios abruptly shoved visitors aside as he shuttled us to the first display case. His rudeness embarrassed me at first, but then, we were at his mercy. The crowd reluctantly parted. In the glass case in front of us were sparkling gold objects which had belonged to an ancient queen of Greece.

“See that cup?” Georgios asked. We four nodded our heads yes, and then stared at the small golden wine glass with a delicate stem. People were trying to elbow their way into our huddle, but Georgios wouldn’t let them. “This cup held the queen of Sparta’s TEARS when her baby died!” he told us, searching our faces to see our reactions.  I inhaled. Sandi sighed. Jim and Bernie gave each other the eye as if to say, “OK, what’s next?

We followed our leader into the adjoining room where he guided us towards the nearest wall and asked us not to turn around. “Don’t look, yet.”

Georgios stood in the corner facing us, his hands in motion. “In 1926, a fisherman was fishing in the Aegean Sea when he discovered something tangled in his net. What do you think the fisherman found?” His eyebrows creased his forehead as he waited for our answer, but we could only give him our empty-handed look.

Then, came “VIOLA,” and we turned around to face the 6’10” bronze statue of Poseidon God of the Sea, dating from 470-440 BC.  The giant stood atop a platform at the center of the room, naked and bearded, his legs set as if he were ready to hurl a discus. His arms stretched out wide as if they once held a great object. I wondered what it could be.

“I think it was a trident, which makes him Poseidon, God of the Sea,” Georgios said, smiling.  “Nobody knows,” he continued, “some say it might have been a thunder bolt. He could be Zeus, God of Thunder.”   

As we continued our tour, I commented on how well he spoke English. “I know English. My brother lives in Chicago,” Georgios told us.  That perked up Bernie’s attention, for he was from Chicago, and the two of them chatted about the windy city until our tour was over 30 minutes later, at 2:00.

I looked at my watch. Time was slipping away; our cruise ship would be sailing in an hour. I reminded my companions, and we finally said a reluctant goodbye to one of the best guides we’d ever had and headed back to the café to grab a quick drink and call a cab. “We’ve plenty of time,” Jim said.  

We had a drink while trading impressions of our intrepid guide’s shtick, and agreed that Georgios and Poseidon, God of the Sea won the day.

I turned to look out the café window and noticed it was raining–as if someone had suddenly turned on the shower full blast. The deluge ran along the busy street and lifted the black bags at curbside as they squished into each other, like water balloons.

The waiter brought our bill, and I asked him about the bags. “A trash collectors’ strike,” he said nonchalantly as if this weren’t the first time.

I glanced over and noticed the cafe’s wall clock above the window, and reminded my companions, “Hey, guys, it’s 2:15 and our ship sails in 45 minutes. We’ve got to get to the Hilton and pick up our luggage at the concierge desk and get going.”

Jim and Bernie looked at their watches and headed outside to hail a cab, as Sandi and I paid the tab. We saw our guys from the window as they tried to flag down taxis, but none would stop. The two of us ran out to join them. The rain pelted. We changed corners. Cabs rushed past.  Minutes ticked away.

 Finally, a cabbie pulled over and made it known in sign language that they would only take one passenger at a time. What?

“It might be they get more fares, that way,” Jim said. 

Sandi and I headed back to the café to dry out. Bernie and Jim followed. My heart throbbed at the thought of missing our Mediterranean cruise ship waiting in Piraeus. And then I thought of Peter. “Let’s call the hotel,” I said to Sandi just as the guys walked in.  “Maybe he can help us.”  Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

Bernie called the Hilton. “They’ll send Peter over with our luggage,” he announced.  “He can take us.”  Then he turned to me. “Bright idea, Teach.”

After a while our courteous driver appeared in the hotel’s black Mercedes packed with our tightly tucked in luggage. We hailed him like a long lost relative and piled in between our bags.

Off we went to the port of Piraeus to meet our ship, the Stella Oceanis… if it were still there. The drive would take half an hour, but our ship was scheduled to sail in 15 minutes.  The rain kept at it. We made small talk as Peter bested the speed limit—if there was one.

He pulled up to the dock and helped us unload our suitcases. The majestic ship loomed ahead. What a relief.

“I’ll meet you on your return and drive you down to Corinth, as we’d planned,” Peter told us. “There’s much to see in Greece.”

“Thank you,” we answered in unison. “See you then.”

Peter, our man of the hour.

As we approached the ship, I noticed passengers standing at the railing pointing down to us, waving and gesturing to each other, and I suddenly realized we were on stage, the tardy ones.

The ship was waiting for us, the four experienced Pan Am world travelers. Ha! They must have been thinking: those naïve American tourists, no raincoats, no umbrellas, making us wait, no sense of time, Tsk. Tsk.

We reached the gangplank, embarrassed but relieved. We’d made it, thanks to my bright idea and our wonderful Hilton driver.