Tag Archives: Indianapolis

Random Reflections from a Coronavirus Funeral Journey

Posted on by • Posted in Family, Personal, Travel • Tagged , , , , , , , • 6 Comments

Random Reflections from a Coronavirus Funeral Journey

As many readers are aware, my mother, Jean Wolfgang, passed away on March 31, and was buried on April 7, in Indianapolis. This necessitated two Chicago-to-Indy trips for Bette and myself, and allowed for some reflection on many things. I’ll share a few impressions here.

Deserted streets. I-65 had far fewer cars than ever before (and plenty of electronic signage reminding us to stay home except for “necessary” trips). But it was well-populated with trucks, bringing us all the stuff we have ordered on Amazon or InstaCart. But the far northeast side of Indianapolis (I-465 & I-69, 86th & 82nd Streets, etc.) is normally a hive of activity and traffic jams, now almost completely deserted.

It is strangely disorienting to stay in a Hampton Inn which has only three other rooms occupied (and one staff person). When we checked in late at night on the first trip, we increased the hotel population by 50%. The second night was crowded: triple the occupants — 10 rooms occupied. Four of them were truckers (at least, there were four big rigs in the parking lot, refrigeration equipment humming).

But no breakfast area, not even coffee (by order of the Department of Health – understandably). The generous Christian who donated points to cover our stay during the funeral commented, “Coronavirus has turned Hampton into a Motel 6!” My response: Nope. Hampton, even on 4 cylinders, is much better!

Thus, I made numerous trips foraging for food, discovering that the only food establishments consistently open, from Chicago to Indianapolis, were McDonald’s, Chick-fil-A, and an occasional Steak&Shake.

We did find that the Longhorn my parents liked, on Washington Street, was open for carry-out. In normal times, we often eat at a Chicago-area Longhorn for Sunday dinner. So I was able to get our usual Sunday meal, on Tuesday: Bette’s favorite salad with pecans, strawberries, orange slices, and grapes, festooned with steak strips from the Flo’s filet we usually get – tender enough to cut with a plastic knife!

We knew already, but re-learned, that Chick-fil-A servers are waayy friendlier than McDonald’s. They have created a culture of pleasantness. Our oldest grand-daughter, Ada, served at the second-largest CFA in Atlanta before the crisis, enjoyed it, and wants to return. They look for conscientious, friendly young people, and teach them the trade. But we do still like McDonald’s coffee much better!

Each time we stopped at a Chick-fil-A, there were numerous happy, pleasant young people, seriously concentrated on fulfilling their assigned tasks, but often laughing and having a good time working with each other and their customers in very unusual circumstances. The lines were long, stretching around the building and into adjacent parking areas, but very well-signed and organized and moving expeditiously, bustling with order takers and food deliverers. “My pleasure” – even through a mask.

On the central purpose for our trip: It is beyond weird to try to organize a funeral during the “present distress.” Severely reduced audiences (more than 100 for Dad’s service only 5 years ago; 7 for Mom’s service – barely enough for pallbearers). Physical distancing. Virtual fist bumps can never replace a good hug. A video of a short graveside service may provide some measure of closure for some, but it leaves others simply wanting “more.”

And, yes, the funeral homes are busy, and using “extra refrigeration,” as one funeral director put it. (Read: refrigerated semi-tractor-trailers to store the bodies).

But in one way it provided a sense of relief. Not just that Mom’s suffering (and frustration at being unable to speak much since her February strokes) is over. But relief, in a sense, for us as well who have been separated from her by this virus — unable to visit, or even talk much since her hand strength was not sufficient to dial or even answer her phone.

Though she was thankfully not afflicted with the virus, in another sense she was essentially taken prisoner by it due to the restrictions it caused. We were basically incommunicado for the last few weeks of her life, dependent upon helpful staff and Hospice nurses to dial her phone for her so we could speak, or occasionally see each other via Skype – and praying that she understood why we could not visit. Blessings upon all who cared for her during this time!

The last thing we saw, leaving the assisted living center after collecting her few earthly possessions, was a young couple, sitting in lawn chairs close to a window of a room in the nursing-home wing, separated but only inches apart from a loved one on the other side of the pane. For many, the struggle continues. May God have mercy!

And, finally and overwhelmingly, tremendous gratitude for the gift of a mother’s love, tendered by a Godly, diligent, intelligent, witty, and spiritual woman, and matched by her love for my father. May she rest in peace, and rise in glory!

P.S. Yes, a Memorial/Celebration of Life service is planned, TBA, at a future date when travel and other restrictions are lifted.

The Bulge

Posted on by • Posted in History, Personal, Travel, World War 2 • Tagged , , , , • 5 Comments

Map_of_Malmedy-Stavelot_December_1944

Seventy years ago, in the early morning hours of 16 December 1944, Allied troops in Europe were awakened by artillery barrages and the sounds of German armored infantry beginning a surprise attack that penetrated Allied lines, creating a “bulge” in the front over the next few days and weeks.

My father, now 92 but then only 22 years old, was serving with the 654th Engineering Battalion – a unit of map-makers, printers and lithographers, trained largely in the urban Midwestern technical high schools of Chicago, Milwaukee, Indianapolis, Cleveland, etc. (in my father’s case, Arsenal Technical High School in Indianapolis). Like most of the common soldiers and support troops of WW2, they were largely drawn from the high school classes of 1940,’41, ’42, and ’43.

In the very first chapter of Citizen Soldiers (arguably his best book), Stephen Ambrose identifies the production and distribution of maps such as those produced by the 654th Engineering Battalion as “a critical and never-ending process – eventually in the Normandy campaign, the U.S. First Army passed out 125 million maps.” About 25 years ago, I found in the bookshop of London’s Imperial War Museum several copies of a history of WW2 told by the use of the maps used by any Allied unit wondering what’s the best way to get where they were supposed to go next – several of the maps in that book bore the imprint of the 654th Engineering Battalion.

In December 1944, Dad’s unit had established a map depot containing 1.5 million maps in the Bock Tannery on the banks of the River Ambleve at Stavelot, Belgium. Here’s the account from the official unit history of the 654th Engineering Battalion, produced shortly after V-E day in 1945 by those who served in the unit:

“Although we had a paratroop alert, and heard some unexplained artillery racket from the direction of Malmedy [about 6 miles away, and about which more later—JSW] nobody expected any real excitement. The first indication that things were getting pretty warm was on the evening of Sunday, December 17, when a sentry from another engineer outfit rushed into our orderly room with word that he had seen German tanks and had been fired on at a road block less than a mile away, across the river. He was sent back to his unit to report, and a little later ha and another man from his unit recrossed the bridge in a jeep to see if the road back was still being held. They had just got across the bridge when they drew a heavy burst of enemy fire, wounding both of them and wrecking the jeep…In the meantime we had taken up defensive positions along the riverbank with our machine gun set up to guard the bridge…

“Since our orders were to hold out until relief arrived, we knew we were in for a hot night. Heavy firing broke out along the river. Mortar shells and machine gun slugs were coming our way, and we answered them with our carbines. From midnight until dawn of December 18th we alone held Stavelot against the German First SS Panzer Division. If the German commander had known that the east bank of the Ambleve, which he wanted very badly to cross, was being held by a mere handful of surveyors, draftsmen, and clerks, he could have sent his tanks roaring across the bridge and up the back road to Spa and Liege. As it worked out, we kept Jerry ducking all night long. Our carbines silenced at least one German machine gun which was operating only fifty yards from the main warehouse of the map depot, and by morning, when the armored infantry arrived to take over the defense of Stavelot, our line was intact, and the line of the main German thrust had swung to the south, trying to find a softer spot in American lines… When we pulled out in the morning [under orders from above to fall back toward Spa and Trois-Ponts, deemed by the Allied brass to be more defensible] we hadn’t lost a man, we had held our position, and we had caused the enemy, with his determination, casualties and plenty of trouble.”

According to some of the “standard” histories of WW2 – usually composed decades later by using many such unit histories, interviews, letters, and many other source documents – the engineers from the “other unit” were elements of the 291st Engineering Battalion, which was in part responsible for the removal and documentation of at least 76 American corpses slaughtered – machine-gunned to death while standing in an open field, having surrendered and been disarmed by the Germans. This was the infamous Malmedy Massacre at the Baugnez Crossroads, only about 6-7 miles from Stavelot where the 654th was stationed (the definitive account is Crossroads of Death by James J. Weingarten, University of California Press, 1979). They were not the only disarmed POW’s massacred by German forces during the Battle of the Bulge.

Had the 654th realized that the Germans they were facing across the Ambleve was the notorious Kampfgruppe Peiper, they might have had a more sobering perspective on their predicament. The commander, Joachim Peiper, was the “point of the spear” of the German attack sweeping west to seize river bridges all the way to Huy. Indeed, even the armored infantry which replaced the 654th at Stavelot was unable to hold the bridge the following day; an attempt to blow the bridge before the Germans could cross was evidently stymied in part by the infiltration of at least two of Colonel Otto Skorzeny’s English-speaking German troops operating behind the Allied lines in captured American uniforms and Jeeps. Peiper’s uncharacteristic hesitation that night at Stavelot was probably as much an attempt to regroup his men, who had been fighting steadily for 36 hours, as well as allow the remainder of his armor, stretched out for miles behind him, to catch up to Peiper’s lead elements. Had Peiper known that Stavelot was the site not only of the map depot, but also one of the largest Allied fuel depots in all of Europe, storing millions of gallons of gasoline, he would no doubt have stormed across the bridge without hesitation.

Over the decades, often relying on the first-person accounts in the 654th unit history, I have tracked the course of where my father was stationed all across Europe, beginning at Tetbury, England (near the current summer palace of Prince Charles in the Cotswolds – where the 654th assembled the huge 6-inches-to-the-mile 3-D relief map of the Normandy beaches used by Eisenhower and the top brass for the main briefing in London, including Churchill himself, of the D-Day invasion – described in the opening chapter of Rick Atkinson’s Liberation Trilogy, and formerly discussed on this blog). The trail then led across Omaha Beach, through Paris, across France and Belgium, and ultimately across the ruined Siegfried Line and the wreckage of Aachen into Germany (first stop at Bad Godesburg, north of Koblenz and about 2 miles from the famous Bridge at Remagen).

One of the most memorable evenings in our “family history” was taking my children to Bad Godesburg nearly 50 years after their grandfather was there, having supper at a sidewalk café within sight of the stanchions of the ruined “Bridge at Remagen,” explaining to a very attentive audience the significance of WW2 and the “citizen soldiers” like their grandfather who each played their part in the “Mighty Endeavor.”

Often accompanied by my good friend and former student, Steve Wallace – who during his 20+ years living in Germany has forgotten more about WW1 & WW2 battlefields than most of us will ever know – I have located many of the places my father’s unit occupied decades before. This included a foray into the Belgian woods with a metal detector (with permissions from the museums and authorities controlling those sites) which produced a buried, mud-encrusted but relatively well-preserved Nazi helmet not far from Spa; it occurred to me then that “the guy who wore this might well have shot at my Dad!” That helmet now resides in my office at home.

Today my father is in a nursing home in Indianapolis, his mind still clear and his resolve strong despite the fact that his body will no longer do everything he wants it to. My thoughts and prayers are with him tonight, as I consider the circumstances he and millions of his comrades faced seven decades ago. Thanks, Dad – I love you!JHW-WW2

Peyton Manning: Sportsman of the Year, 2013 — Sports Illustrated

Posted on by • Posted in Commentary, Sports • Tagged , , , , • Leave a comment

Peyton Manning: Sportsman of the Year, 2013 — Sports Illustrated

Excerpts from one of several long articles on Peyton Manning — read more at http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/sportsman/news/20131215/Peyton-Manning-Sportsman-2013#all

A son of the genteel South, Manning learned early on the power of the handwritten note, unsurpassed by text or tweet. He still remembers the college coaches who wrote him during his recruitment (like Florida State’s Bobby Bowden) as opposed to the ones who resorted to thoughtless form letters. He would lick his thumb and rub it against the signatures to determine whether they were real. When Manning left for college, Archie wrote him before every fall semester.

Throughout his career Manning has written coaches and players who retire, as well as widows of coaches and players who pass away. He writes subjects of documentaries he’s seen and victims of tragedies he’s heard about. He writes his children every six months, even though they are years away from deciphering his cursive. Ashley buys his stationery, cream-colored cards with Peyton W. Manning in block letters at the top. He adds an arrow when a message continues to the back. “I don’t know if that’s proper or not,” he says. It’s hard to find any coach, teammate or staffer who hasn’t received a note from Manning. “I got one when my dad passed,” says Stokley, “and another when Peyton stayed at my house.” “I got one when I retired,” says former Colts video director Marty Heckscher. “It almost brought me to tears.” “I got one when the Colts let me go,” says Torine, the former strength coach. “It meant more than any paycheck.”

All the support that Manning sent to others came flooding back in the year he missed: calls from friends such as Fox broadcaster Joe Buck, who nearly lost his voice because of a nerve ailment in his left vocal cord, but also from rivals like Brady and Patriots coach Bill Belichick. “We’ve been playing a long time in the same era, and there aren’t too many people who can relate to what I go through on a daily basis and what he goes through, besides each other,” Brady says. “There’s mutual appreciation. I’ve always looked up to him and admired him.” Manning considered the impact those well-wishers made and was reminded of the influence he could have.

On his first day as a Bronco, he sought out staffers Adam Newman and Josh Bruning. “I’m going to need you to help me with my mail,” he said. Every Tuesday, Newman and Bruning read the roughly 300 pieces addressed to Manning in a given week, determining which ones he will want to see. Autograph requests go in one pile. Double-dippers are discarded. Heartfelt letters are marked read in red pen. Manning reviews them over lunch in the office Newman and Bruning share. The notes that move him, or that entertain him, he takes home. He has installed a hospital tray next to his bed — “My wife finds it very attractive,” he says — so he can work there without craning his neck. He uses the tray to watch video on his iPad, an upgrade from the Beta. But he often pulls out the stationery instead and writes.

To Charlie Johnson, a 63-year-old in Indiana nervous about neck-fusion surgery: “My neck pain went away immediately after my surgery. I believe you will be able to resume your normal activities rather quickly. I took it slow on doctors’ orders, but I felt better right away. I can’t give you a definite time frame. I would encourage you to be patient to avoid any setbacks. But you should be back lifting soon. Good luck and health.”

To Jack Benson, an eight-year-old in California with cancer: “I just wanted you to know that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Your cousin, Skip Hanke, wrote to me and told me of the tough fight you are having. You have a lot of people pulling for you. I am glad to know you are a Bronco fan! Keep fighting, stay positive, and say your prayers.”

To Clint Taylor, a high school quarterback in Texas who broke his leg: “I just wanted to encourage you to keep working hard and keep the faith. I have read your blog and I can tell you that your positive attitude and your strong work ethic will take you a long way. Keep it up.”

To Chris Harris, widow of David Harris, a pastor in Arkansas who was killed in a car accident along with his granddaughter Maci: “I am sorry for your loss. Please know that you are in my thoughts and prayers. ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted’ (Matthew 5:4). I learned that Pastor Harris was an avid Colts fan and had an autographed picture of me in his office. I read an article about Pastor Harris, and I can tell he was very special. Maci sounded very special as well. I am proud that he was a fan of mine. May God’s peace be with you.”

To Shannon West, who married Bill Sydlowski in New Jersey this summer: “Best wishes to you on your wedding day. I wish you eternal happiness. Your dad says that you are a fan of mine (he said commercials, maybe football too?). I appreciate your support. I can tell that he is very proud of you. All my best to you and Bill.”

Manning keeps a list of those he has contacted, with descriptions of the correspondence on the back of the their envelopes. “Letter from a woman whose best friend had cancer and is a big fan. . . . Husband has MS and they are naming their first born Peyton. . . . Sick man. Call ASAP.” Sometimes, instead of a note, he picks up the phone on the 25‑minute drive home after practice. “I cold-call them,” he says. “I block my number, and they don’t answer, so then you have to call back at night. They think it’s a prank call, but after that, you just take a moment and listen. I’ve always done that, but it is a little different this year.” Many of the voices on the other end are struggling with neck injuries. “I have to be careful about giving medical advice,” Manning says, “but these people are hurting and I was able to overcome the same thing. I tell them, ‘These are my symptoms. These are the doctors I saw.’ ” He asks Antonopulos, the Broncos’ trainer, for guidance. “If someone is from Texas, he will give me a doctor in Dallas.”

*****

It is an overcast Friday morning in Indianapolis, the Colts beat the Titans the night before in Nashville, and the equipment managers are spinning 30 loads of laundry on three hours’ sleep. “It doesn’t smell as bad when you win,” says Jon Scott, who has been scrubbing grass stains since the team’s Baltimore days. He met Manning in 1998, when the hotshot prospect visited the Colts’ headquarters. On the way out, Manning said, “Hey, Jon, it was nice to meet you.” The Mannings may be American royalty, but they relate best to workers. “My mom drove a station wagon, my dad drove an Oldsmobile,” Cooper says. “We were around fame but we weren’t entrenched in it. We weren’t going to Europe on private planes. We did what everybody else did.” Archie told the boys that the most important people on any football team were the trainers and equipment managers. When Saints trainer Dean Kleinschmidt was married, Archie was the best man. When Archie was traded to Houston, assistant equipment manager Glennon (Silky) Powell cried as he walked him to his car.

………………………………………………

Outside of Manning’s family, support staffers might know him better than anybody. They know that he studies opposing defensive coordinators, and their history against him, as much as opposing teams. They know that he likes a baseball cap handed to him the moment he walks off the field after third down, and collected the moment it’s time to walk back on. They know that he doesn’t wear a chinstrap in pregame warmups, so it has to be attached when he retreats to the locker room. The equipment managers laugh about staffers having to be reassigned from chinstrap and baseball-cap duty. “Oh, he’s demanding,” says Heckscher. “There were times I got an intern to shoot a walk-through, and it’s boring as hell, and the intern starts daydreaming and misses a snap. Most people don’t notice. Peyton walks in an hour later and says, ‘Things moving too fast for you guys out there today?’ ” Likewise, if Sullivan and Seabrooks flubbed a couple of passes, Manning would crack, “How about we mix in some catches with these drops?”

He barred his beloved equipment guys from the goodbye press conference, for fear he’d break down even faster than he did. But when it was over, he requested that they drive him to the airport, Sullivan behind the wheel of a Toyota Sequoia, Seabrooks riding shotgun, Scott and Manning in the backseat. “There were a lot of tears,” Scott says. “I gave him a handwritten note because that’s what he gives everybody else. He thought it was a joke. I just wrote the record of my first 15 years with the Colts and my record after he came.” Without Manning there might not even be an NFL team in Indianapolis, and there would certainly be no Lucas Oil Stadium and no downtown renaissance. Scott glances at a picture of Lucas Oil, lit up for the 2012 Super Bowl, hanging in the Colts’ facility. “It wouldn’t have been here without that guy,” he says.

They returned from the airport and cleaned out his office, pausing to send him a picture of the whiteboard, filled with his scribbles. Manning still calls the Colts’ equipment room every few weeks and asks to go on speakerphone. He texted Indianapolis staffers a video of the first preseason out pattern he completed for the Broncos. He mailed Christmas cards, with donations enclosed. Given the angry politics of modern sports, it is nearly impossible for an iconic athlete to remain on good terms with a city left behind. But Manning has accomplished what Brett Favre could not. After signing with Denver he called Vince Caponi, executive chairman of the board for St. Vincent Health, which oversees 22 hospitals in Indiana, including the Peyton Manning Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis. People were asking Caponi if he’d rename it after Luck. “I want you to know I’m committed to St. Vincent,” Manning said. “That won’t waver.” His Peyback Foundation still hands out 800 bags of groceries in Indy for Thanksgiving, as well as 800 in Denver.

When Manning started the foundation, in 1999, he was advised to address one specific area of need. “But I like to say yes more than I say no,” he explains. Peyback has awarded $5.5 million in grants to nonprofit organizations benefiting underprivileged children in Louisiana, Tennessee, Indiana and, now, Colorado. Most of the donations are relatively modest, around $10,000, but they are earmarked for roughly 90 organizations per year. Some want to buy school uniforms. Some want to launch afternoon programs. Some want to build gardens and grow vegetables. Online applications are due Feb. 1 and are graded by a board. Manning and his wife pick the winners.

Read More: http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/sportsman/news/20131215/peyton-manning-sportsman-2013/#ixzz2oK9Nzur8