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� Our USA Magazine

FEATURES our country, our people, our stories Summer �01�

6 Coming to the Promised LandThe fascination of Ellis Island lingers in the hearts of millions of Americans who can trace their family’s history to its shores.

1� An Eagle Named Freedom“The eagle looked up at me, and my old life was over, anew second life had begun.”

16 Veterans History ProjectA glimpse at inspiring, personal, first-hand accounts of Americans at war.

�0 Iraq MosaicA visually stunning montage of Iraqi photos, from oneMarine’s perspective.

�4 Honoring All Who Served“To be a veteran one must know and determine one’s price for freedom.”

�6 Life in the Fast LaneMaybe it was that way in ‘68, but what about today?

30 Story CorpsBelieving that ‘Every Voice Matters,’ this organization has set about collecting them since �003.

3� Eccentric & QuirkyThe title says it all. Alive with captivating people and places, Portland,Oregon is a must see!

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Our USA Magazine 3

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4 Photographers

Contributors

�5 Point of View The 4th, Flag & Freedom

�9 Photo Montage Junked Car Culture

38 I Pledge AllegianceA Hometown Tribute to its Author

45 I’m Just Sayin’ Insomnia & Infomercials

47 Profile Debra Harrison

50 My Hometown The Leicester Depot

58 Photo Montage Teen Love

6� American Viral USA:30 Day Journey 63 Humble Beginnings The Pocket Flag Project

36 Made In AmericaThe creative way to help organizations raise funds while supporting American made products.

40 How Did I Become the Old One?

It happens to everyone, but did you really expect it would happen to you?

4� From My Window Window“It was heaven and hell rolled in a wad of Bazooka bubble gum. With comic.”

46 Book CrossingBookCrossing is the act of releasing books “into the wild” and then following their journeys and the lives they touch.

48 Ground ExpectationsIs traveling by air as exciting as it once seemed to be, or is it now just an inconvenient and unpleasant mode of transportation?

54 Of Human Coots & Avian GrebsLearning about life, love, patience, and people through the art of observation.

5 15

Sunset Dove Photo - Terry Finch

In honor of all things American, we will send the above CD to the

first ten people who subscribe to Our USA Magazine! Music of the very talented Joe Kent and Curtis Lynn Cook. Read about

them on page 6�.

We’re giving away some Good

Ole’Music!

DEPARTMENTS

4 Our USA Magazine

Cher Valentino, Editor

Wendy Junker, Marketing Director

CJ, Production Manager

Debra Jennings, Text Editing

Bubba, Director of Goodwill

our usa magazine

PO Box 275Leicester, NY 14481

PO Box 761Sidney, NE 69162

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Summer ‘12 Copyright © 2012All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any manner, in whole or part is prohibited.

We’ve gone national! You are hold-ing in your hands the very first issue of Our USA Magazine that has appeared on newsstand!

Our USA continues to be an overwhelming journey. So many new experiences, so many new friends, so many ups and downs. I want to give a big shout out to all our friends and supporters. I wish I could engrave each name in this edition, because it is thanks to you that we have continued. I want to give a big shout out to all our contributors – all those who embraced the vision of creating a magazine that is about our country and our people.

That’s a major reason I love putting this magazine together – I have the opportunity to meet so many interesting, diverse, and creative people. No matter what part of the country, no matter what age, gender, or cultural background, no matter what line of work, we all share one thing in common – our deep and abiding love for our country. This commonality is genuinely expressed through all the wonderful stories, photos, art and poetry sent by you, our readers.

For this issue I took the liberty of including my hometown in this regu-lar feature. “The Leicester Railroad Depot” takes a historical look at a small upstate New York train depot that is taking on a new life and energy in a small village with a big heart. Also, I’m honoring my beloved parents in the “Story Corps” section on page 31 with one of my favorite photos of them.

As Our USA is about you, for you, and by you, we rely almost exclusively on your content to create it. It is through your submissions that we are able to give voice to who we are as a country. Please continue to send us articles, poetry, photos and artwork, and please spread the word. Make suggestions, give us feedback about what you like and don’t like – send us email or snail mail, but please connect – we love to hear from you! Enjoy ~ Cher

Cover Photo by Lauri Novak “Long May She Wave”

Back Cover Photo “Misty Morning” by John Churchman

John Churchman is an Artist/Photogra-pher who lives in northern Vermont. He has worked as a commercial airbrush artist, photo retoucher, illustrator and graphic designer. Currently he is work-ing on many fronts, from developing Brickhouse Studios fine art cards,farming, painting, photographing, and teaching photography retreats.

www.brickhousestudios.com

P. 3 Terry Finch Sunset Dove

P. 28 Gwendolyn ‘65 Barracuda http://sliderarts.com/

P.29 Robert Oswald The Junked Car Culture http://on.fb.me/JBpk76

P. 43 Jason Kuffer Air Conditioners, East Harlem www.jasonkuffer.com P. 44 Paul Lowry ‘Patsy’s Pizzeria’, East Harlem http://bit.ly/JmwcGY

P. 53 Old Mailbox Cheryl Rankin

Tennessee Walker Porter L. Versfelt lll http://www.vcgtvepk.com

P. 54 Wendy French theadmag.com

P. 58 Shannon Hecht Teen Love P. 61 Jack Wagner http://jackwagner.us

P. 63 Jayel Aheram http://aheram.com

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P.C. MooreheadP. C. Moorehead enjoys living in the woods of Wisconsin, where the beautty and quiet inspire her to write. Images of nature appear in much of her poetry and prose. Her writing has appeared inanthologies and other publications. “Life in the Fast Lane” describes P.C.’s long companionship with her 1968 Plymoluth Barracuda, her first and most appreciated car. She now enjoys driving a Prius on Wisconsins’ country roads.

Meet Some of Our Contributors

Jayel AheramJayel Aheram is a student journalist, Iraq War and Marine veteran, internationally-published photographer, artist, and polymath. He has drawn acclaim from notable names such as Yoko Ono and Rosie O’Donnell. His work has been featured and published in multiple print, television, and online venues. He is a popularly exhibited artist featured in more than a dozen exhibitions, including three critically-acclaimed solo exhibitions. Jayel currently resides in California, and is pursuing a degree in journalism. http://aheram.com

Liz NewmanLiz R. Newman is a freelance writer and novelist, and a stay-at-home mother of four children. She holds a Masters in Clinical Psychology, and has served as a counseling psychologist at a community health center, a crisis center and a local school. She resides in the San Francisco Bay area, and dreams of one day having the time to join the PTA and go out for coffee. In the meantime, she’s trying desperately not to burn bridges in her hometown. lizrnewman.net

Geff ZamorGeff says “I love being there to grab the shot – capturing a moment in time that will never come again.” After working in the L.A. entertaintaiment industry for the last 10 years, he turned to the still frame to relearn how to tell a story with as few images and as few words as possible.One morning he packed the dog in the car, left Los Angeles, and started to drive across this great country – photographing his entire journey. www.arestlesssoldier.com

Jeff GuidryJeff Guidry is a rock and rhythm-and-blues guitarist who has played with artists like Brian Wilson (of Beach Boys fame) and guitarist Roy Buchanan. Jeff spends his spare time volunteering for the Sarvey Wildlife Center in Washington. His years working with a bald eagle, Freedom, led to his story about her. Jeff and Freedom have been featured on Animal Planet, and have made many public appearances at schools and other events to promote the rehabilitation and preservation of wildlife. He lives in Monroe, Washington.

Lauri NovakWith camera in hand, I was fortunate growing up to have traveled around the US more than most. Traveling gave me an appreciation for the world around me. I started seeing in a different way, different perspective and appreciating what I saw. As I got older I had the opportunity to travel a little bit over-seas which opened up my eyes to other cultures and even more ways of seeing the world. Capturing these views and perspectives and sharing them is my passion. I am finally pursuing this passion, and as they say - if you love what you do and do what you love you’ll never work a day in your life. laurinovakphotography.zenfolio.com

6 Our USA Magazine

coming to the promised land

Photo Courtesy of the National Archives

Our USA Magazine 7

entered New York harbor. Passen-gers jostling and crowding the deck of their ship to witness the amazing view of Lady Liberty on one side and Ellis Island with its maze of red complex brick buildings on the other.

Unfortunately, after only five years of operation, the Ellis Island Immigration Station burned down. The Treasury Department quickly ordered the immigration facility be replaced under one very important

It has been more than 55 years since Ellis Island closed its facilities for immigrant processing, but the fascination of this small legendary island lingers in the hearts of millions of Americans who can trace their family’s history to its shores.

From 1892 to 1954, over twelve million immigrants entered the United States through Ellis Island, within the protective shadow of the Statue of Liberty.

On January 1, 1892, the first immigrant to pass through the newly constructed Ellis Island was Annie Moore, a 15-year-old girl from Cork, Ireland. She and her two brothers were coming to America to meet their parents, who had moved to New York two years prior. She received a greeting from officials and a $10 gold piece.

One can only imagine the joy, relief and excitement these immigrants must have felt as they

Photo Courtesy of the U.S. National Parks Service

8 Our USA Magazine

condition - that all future structures built on Ellis Island had to be fireproof. On December 17, 1900 the new main building opened and 2,251 immigrants were received that day.

First and second class passengers who arrived in New York harbor were not required to undergo the inspection process at Ellis Island. Instead, these passengers underwent a cursory inspection aboard ship; the theory being that if a person could afford to purchase a first or second class ticket, they were less likely to become a public charge in America due to medical or legal reasons.

The scenario was far different for “steerage,” or third class passengers. These immigrants traveled in crowd-ed and often unsanitary conditions near the bottom of steamships with few amenities, often spending up to two weeks seasick in their bunks during rough Atlantic ocean cross-ings. Upon arrival in New York City, ships would dock at the Hudson or East River piers. First and second class passengers would disembark, pass through Customs at the piers, and were free to enter the United States. The steerage and third class passengers were transported from the pier by ferry or barge to Ellis Island where everyone would undergo amedical and legal inspection.

If the immigrant’s papers were in order and they were in reasonably good health, the Ellis Island inspection process would last approximately three to five hours. The inspections took place in the Registry Room (or Great Hall), where doctors would briefly scan every immigrant for obvious physical ailments.

The scenario was far different for steerage, or third class passengers.

Photos courtesy of the Library of Congress

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Doctors at Ellis Island soon became very adept at conducting these “six second physicals.” By 1916, it was said that a doctor could identify numerous medical conditions (ranging from anemia to goiters to varicose veins) just by glancing at an immigrant.

The ship’s manifest, or passenger list – (filled out at the port of embar-kation) – contained the immigrant’s name and his/her answers to numerous questions. This document was used by immigration inspectors at Ellis Island to cross-examine the immigrant during the legal (or primary) inspection. The two agencies responsible for processing immigrants at Ellis Island were the United States Public Health Service and the Bureau of Immigration (later known as the Immigration and Naturalization Service.)

Despite the island’s reputation as an “Island of Tears,” so-called due to the uncertainty of whether an immi-grant would be allowed entry to the United States, the vast majority of immigrants were treated courteous-ly and respectfully, and were free to begin their new lives in America after only a few short hours on Ellis Island. Only two percent of the arriving immigrants were excluded from entry. The two main reasons why an immigrant would be excluded were if a doctor diagnosed that the immigrant had a contagious disease that would endanger the public health or if a legal inspector thought the immigrant was likely to become a public charge or an illegal contract laborer.

During the early 1900’s immigration officials mistakenly thought that the peak wave of immigration had already passed. Actually, immigration was on the rise, and in 1907 more people immigrated to the United States than any other year; approximately 1.25 million immigrants were processed at Ellis Island in that one year.

Consequently, masons and carpenters were constantly struggling to enlarge and build new facilities to accommodate this greater than anticipated influx of new immigrants. Hospital build-ings, dormitories, contagious disease wards and kitchens were all feverishly constructed between 1900 and 1915.

As the United States entered World War I, immigration to the United States decreased. Numerous sus-pected enemy aliens throughout the United States were brought to Ellis Island under custody. Between 1918 and 1919, detained, suspected enemy aliens were transferred from Ellis Island to other locations in order for the United States Navy, with the Army Medical Department, to take over the island complex for the duration of the war. During this time, regular inspection of arriving immigrants was conducted on board ship or at the docks. At the end of World War I, a big “Red Scare” spread across America and thou-sands of suspected alien radicals were interned at Ellis Island. Hun-dreds were later deported based on

10 Our USA Magazine

the principal of guilt by association with any organizations advocating revolution against the Federal government. In 1920, Ellis Island reopened as an immigration receiv-ing station and 225,206 immigrants were processed that year.

From the very beginning of the mass migration that spanned the years 1880 to 1924 (roughly), an increasingly vociferous group of politicians and nativists demanded increased restrictions on immigra-tion. Laws and regulations such as the Chinese Exclusion Act, the Alien Contract Labor Law, and the institution of a literacy test barely stemmed this flood tide of new immigrants.

Actually, the death knell for Ellis Island as a major entry point for new immigrants began to toll in 1921. It reached a crescendo between 1921 – with the passage of the Quota Laws – and 1924, with the passage of the National Origins Act. These restrictions were based on a percentage system according to the number of ethnic groups already living in the United States as per the 1890 and 1910 census. It was an attempt to preserve the ethnic flavor of the “old immigrants,” those earlier settlers primarily from Northern and Western Europe. The perception existed that the newly arriving immigrants mostly from southern and eastern Europe were somehow inferior to those who arrived earlier.

After World War I, the United States began to emerge as a potential world power. United States embassies were established in countries all over the world, and prospective immigrants now applied for their visas at American consulates in their countries of origin. The necessary paperwork

was completed at the consulate and a medical inspection was also conducted there.

Although Ellis Island still remained open for many years and served a multitude of purposes, it served primarily as a detention center during World War II for alien enemies, and those considered to be inadmissible. By 1946, approxi-mately 7000 German, Italian, and Japanese people (aliens and citi-zens) comprised the largest groups who were detained at Ellis Island during the war. In November 1954, the last detainee, a Norwegian merchant seaman named Arne Peterssen was released, and Ellis Island officially closed. Changes in immigration laws and modes of transportation, as well as the cost effectiveness of operating the island all played a role in its closure.

In 1965, President Lyndon BainesJohnson declared Ellis Island part of the Statue of Liberty National Monument. Ellis Island remained open to the public on a limited basis between 1976 and 1984.

Photos courstesy of the Library of Congress

Our USA Magazine 11

In 1982, President Ronald Reagan asked Lee Iacocca, then Chairman of Chrysler Corporation, to head a private sector effort to raise funds for the restoration and preservation of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Under the auspices of Mr. Iacocca, The Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation (SOLEIF) was founded.

The restoration of Ellis Island is the largest historical restoration in the history of the United States. Ellis Island, our most potent symbol of the American immigrant experience, had become sadly deteriorated. The American people responded to the challenge with passion and generosity, donating more than $160 million for the project.

When the island opened in Sep-tember 1990, it unveiled the world-class Ellis Island Immigration

Museumwhere many rooms appeared as they had during the height ofimmigrant processing.

Other areas housed theaters, librar-ies, an oral history recording studioand exhibits that told the story of The Peopling of America®. In the 1990s, the Foundation restored two more buildings (for a total of five buildings saved and restored on Ellis Island), expanding and upgrading the Museum Library and Oral History Studio, and creating a Children’s Orientation Center and the Ellis Island Living Theatre. The Ellis Island Immigration Museum has welcomed nearly 30 million visitors since its opening in 1990.

One of the most inspiring Foundation projects is The American Immigrant Wall of Honor®. Located on the restored Ellis Island, the wall proudly bears the names of more than half a mil-lion immigrants whose descendants memorialized them by having their names inscribed there.

Forty percent of Americans today can trace their roots to an ancestor who was among those brave and determined individuals who contributed to our unique

“Nation of Immigrants.”

Photos courtesy of the U.S. National Parks Service

1� Our USA Magazine

Our USA Magazine 13

Every chance I got, I talked softly to her, telling her to hold on, to fight, to live. Why I felt such a connection to this particular eagle, I do not know.

Four weeks went by and she was still on her belly. There was nothing so heartbreaking as seeing the life force of this majestic bird slowly slip away.

At five weeks, we were approaching the end.

Sarvey Wildlife Center believes in giving every soul that comes in a chance to live; but when it is painfully clear that death is the only way out, the decision is made to let that particular spirit continue on its journey. We arrived at this juncture; this beautiful baby eagle was given one week to see if she could, or would, stand up. This was a crushing blow. Every day that next week I checked to see if she was up. The answer was always the same. “No.”

Working at the Center, you

begin to recognize a look – a look that indicates death is

winning. This bruised and broken

bald eagle was losing the battle,

but not her dignity. The struggle for her

life was not over.

On the following Thursday I could barely face going to the Center. As I walked in, not a word was spoken, but everyone wore a huge grin. I raced back to the young bald eagle’s cage, and there she stood in all her glory!

She was standing! She had won. This girl had cheated death by a mere 24 hours. She was going to make it. She was going to get her second chance.

After another week the pins in her wings were removed. Her right wing was perfect, but her left was not. She couldn’t fully extend it. We tried physical therapy and hoped a little time was all she needed, but there was no significant progress. Her wing was too badly damaged. She would never fly, never soar the skies with her peers. At least her life was saved, but for what? Was she doomed to live her life in a cage? Not exactly, for this was a special soul.

Bald eagles normally want nothing to do with humans and will go to great lengths to get away from them. This girl liked people; she wanted to see what you were doing, to follow where you were going, and to see with whom you were going. She was very curious. About this time our director sug-gested that I try to glove train her. She had the right temperament; maybe she could do educational programs. Wouldn’t that be some-thing? Very few eagles are able or willing to be handled, much less remain calm in front of large crowds.

The work began.

Every day at Sarvey Wildlife Center we witness first hand the incredible battle for life that our animal brothers and sisters go through. This is a story of one bald eagle’s magnificent spirit and sheer will to live.

It was mid-summer when a call came in reporting that a fledgling bald eagle had fallen out of a nest on a Seattle golf course. Our very own Crazy Bob went to the rescue and transported her to the Center. She arrived with two broken wings. When asked to take her to the vet, I jumped at the chance.

When I loaded this hurt and terri-fied baby into the car, she neither whimpered nor fought; she couldn’t even stand. This wasn’t a good sign; she was obviously in very bad shape. As I drove to Sno-Wood Veterinary Hospital, I constantly looked back to check on my very special passenger. She stared at me with big beautiful brown eyes, her mouth slightly agape. I drove a little faster—this bald eagle must live!

She was operated on and had both wings pinned; they were immobile. Back at Sarvey, we laid her in the bottom half of a huge carrier filled with shredded newspaper for support.

The fight for her life began.

Twice a day a tube was pushed down her throat so that food and medicine could be pumped into her. A week went by with no change; she still couldn’t stand up.

At three weeks, there was a slight change, but it was for the worse. I was getting scared for this young bald eagle.

14 Our USA Magazine

known across the country.

She is also one of the great loves of my life. She will touch her beak to the tip of my nose and stare into my eyes. At that moment our spirits are one. I am the luckiest person on Earth. Thank you, Freedom.

Freedom is alive because Jeff fought for her life, and there is no doubt that Freedom sensed his love and commitment. Jeff gave Freedom the support she needed to want to live.

When Jeff was later diagnosed with a serious illness, he found himself turning to Freedom for support. Two or three times a week, when-ever he felt well enough, he would drive from Bothell to Arlingtonto walk with Freedom around the grounds. Now it was Freedom’s turn to give Jeff a reason to fight for his life.

After nearly a year of chemothera-py, Jeff was informed there was no trace of the disease left in his body. He immediately left for Sarvey.

When he took Freedom out of her

cage for a walk, she did something she had never done before: she extended her wings and wrapped them around him, touching his nosewith her beak in an avian hug. Jeff believed that Freedom knew he was in remission, and that moment cemented an already unshakeable bond between the two.

In 2008 Guidry emailed a friend, and told her the story of how, through his volunteer work at Sarvey Wildlife Center, he had re-habilitated an eagle with two broken wings, and nursed her back to health at exceptionally long odds, and how that amazing eagle, named Freedom, later inspired him to triumph over cancer.

After his friend forwarded the email to others, and they in turn to others, it became an internet sensa-tion and swept around the world. Jeff, who never could have imag-ined the power of a simple 800-word email, received over 10,000 responses (and counting!) before losing track.

Now, in “An Eagle Named Freedom,” he shares the full, remarkable story of how Freedom and The Sarvey Wildlife Center saved his life.

AN EAGLE NAMED FREEDOM:My True Story of a Remarkable Friendship By Jeff GuidryWilliam Morrow, Harper Collins Publishers224 Pages $21.99/Hardcover

ISBN: 006182674X / ISBN 13: 9780061826740

I started getting her used to the glove, a little at a time. At first she was thinking, “OK, I’ll step on your hand, but only with one foot.” Then, “OK, I’ll use both feet but only for a second.” Later, “Yeah you can take me part way out of my cage, then I’ll jump right back in.” And finally, “OK, I’ll let you walk around with me on your arm. Hey, this is fun!”

At this point, every day a volunteer would take this bald eagle out for a cruise around the clinic. It was time for her final test — jesses, the leather straps that attach to the ankles of birds of prey to give control to the handler and to protect the bird from injury or escape. I put the jesses on her—a piece of cake. It was as if she were born with them on. This was certainly a very mellow bald eagle.

Now it was almost time for her first program, but she needed a name. None that we could come up with seemed right, and then Paula, a volunteer, said, “Hey, what about Freedom?” That was it; that was her spirit and her spirit was why grandfather sent her to us. She was ready.

Freedom is now fourteen years old and one of Sarvey Wildlife Center’s premier ambassadors. She clearly enjoys our programs and really knows how to turn on the charm.

She is a star. Freedom has been on national television, on the front page of major newspapers, and is

Photo by Ken Lubas

Our USA Magazine 15

Shelly Gail Morris

Shelly Gail Morris is “everybody’s girlfriend.” A southern girl, Shelly was born in Atlanta, Georgia and now resides in good, old Nashville, Tennessee. She has been married for 26 years and has two boys and two dogs. She enjoys writing about strong women pursuing their dreams and following their hearts. Her new book, “Mae’s Open Arms,” is available now from Oak Tara Publishing. www.ShellyGailMorris.com.

Caroline K. Gorman

Caroline Gorman is a graduate of St. John’s College, where she majored in philosophy. She currently resides in Austin, Texas, where she works for a nonprofit for wildlife conservation. She continues to write and is planning on attending business school to get her MBA.

Tom RoffeTom is town historian for the town of Leicester, NY. His love of railroads was nurtured by his father who was director for several of the Railroad YMCA’s throughout New York. Tom himself also worked for a time with Amtrak. His interests include collecting books, especially the Civil War and Frontier history of the French & Indian War era, and of course, researching and documenting history, especially with local connections.

Roger SimmermakerRoger Simmermaker is the author of How Americans Can Buy American: The Power of Consumer Patriotism and writes “Buy American Mention of the Week” articles for his website www.howtobuyamerican.com and WorldNetDaily.com. Roger has a degree in Electronics Engineering Technology and is the vice president of his local Machinists Union (IAM&AW). He been a frequent guest on Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC.

Some more of Our Contributors

Mike DiCertoA filmmaker and writer since childhood, Mike Dicerto has directed numerous shorts, music videos, documentaries, promotional videos and two feature films (No Exit and Triptosane). His first novel, Milky Way Marmalade, won the the 2003 Dream Realm Award for speculative fiction ebooks. His new middle-grade fantasy series The Adventures of Rubert Starbright has also received rave reviews. A long-time volunteer at NYC’s Ollie’s Place Adoption Center, Mike lives in NY with his wife and soulmate, Suzie and rescued cat, Cosmo. www.mikedicerto.com

Dennis L. Page

I’m an extrovert, conversationalist, news junky, writer, and gardener, preparer of all home meals, truth seeker, husband, father and grandfather. My first writing course was in the early 1970s when I learned to write as I speak and to express myself in the vernacular. I currently reside in the Southern Tier of New York State on the Pennsylvania border. pagesvoice.wordpress.com

16 Our USA Magazine

The Veterans History Project collects and preserves the remembrances of American war veterans and civilian workers who supported them. These collections of first-hand accounts are archived in the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress for use by researchers and to serve as an inspiration for generations to come. The Project collects remembrances of veterans who served in World War I, World War II, the Cold War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Persian Gulf War, and the Afghanistan and Iraq conflicts. U.S. citizen civilians who actively supported war efforts also share their valuable stories.

Stories are told through personal narrative, correspondence, and visual materials. The Project collects first-hand accounts ofU.S. veterans as well as war industry workers, USO workers, flight instructors, medical volunteers, and all those persons who were actively involved in supporting war efforts.

Every veteran has his or her own war, and each is custodian of a unique story and memories. The sto-ries are not a formal history of war, but a treasure trove of individual feelings and personal recollections. These heartfelt accounts make us laugh, cry and remember.

The following descriptions highlight the diveristy of content that can be found on the individual transcript of each contributing veteran.

Robert McCollum had a unique talent for helping service members forget about home, if only for a few hours.

McCollum was first assigned to Assam, India as a crew chief in the Air Transport Command, once assisting in the rescue of a downed airplane crew in Burma. Then a remarkable thing happened in his military career. After performing successfully in a variety show called “Hump Happy” while still assigned to Assam, he received orders sending him to perform all over India, and then on to Africa, Sicily, and Yemen. The shows, in which McCollum and the other Hump Happy Cowboys performed skits, played musical instruments, and sang songs, were performed for a variety of audiences, including American and English troops, the Women’s Army Corps, and the King of Yemen.

Although the group broke up and the men were reassigned to their previous bases, McCollum never lost his love for entertaining. After the war, he performed in nightclubs for many years before working with Bob Hope and Jack Benny, as well as Kathryn Grayson, the Lawrence Welk Band, and Freddie Hart, among others.

WWII

Robert B. McCollum, Air Transport Camp, Burma

World War II, 1939-1946Branch: Army Air Forces/Corps

Unit: Squadron D, 556th Army Air Force Base Unit (AAFBU), Air

Transport CommandService Location: Sheppard Field, Texas; Jefferson Barracks, Mis-

souri; Assam, India; China-Burma-India (CBI) Theater; Africa; Sicily,

Italy; YemenRank: Corporal

Place of Birth: San Antonio, TX

Robert McCollum Collection (AFC/2001/001/1795), Veterans History Project, American Folklife Center, Library of Congress

Our USA Magazine 17

Veterans

Project

“Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima” is an Associated Press photograph that won the Pulitzer Prize for Photography. It was taken by Joe Rosenthal on February 23, 1945.

The picture inspired sculptor Felix de Weldon, who created a life size model of the photograph. The memorial depicts five United States Marines and a U.S. Navy corpsman raising the flag of the United States atop Mount Suribachi during the Battle of Iwo Jima in World War II.

For more infromation on the Veterans History Project go to www.loc.gov/vets

History

18 Our USA Magazine

“when it’s 20 degrees below zero, it’s mighty cold on a person’s ass.”

Pierce’s letters also detail the poi-gnant homesickness felt by every soldier who has ever served in a war. Writing on February 26, 1953, Pierce tells his parents, “Tomorrow I want you to go to Milikan’s record shop and buy “Mom and Dad’s Waltz” by Lefty Frizell. Please!! Listen to it and tell me if you think it’s wonderful. If you would play it when you read my letters it can save a lot of words.”

This classic country song conveys a sentiment that many soldiers in a similar situation can relate to: “I’d fight in wars, do all the chores / For my Mama and Daddy / …Because I know I owe them my all.” K

OREA

Korean War MemorialPhoto courtesy nps.gov

Edward Pierce Collection (AFC/2001/001/8025), Veterans History Project, American Folklife Center, Library of Congress

From the time he was drafted in the summer of 1952, 20-year-old Edward Pierce kept up a regular, well-written correspondence with his parents back home in Calumet City, Illinois. Writing almost every day, he penned his letters from boot camp, from the ship taking him to Korea, and finally from the front lines of the war with North Korea.

Pierce’s letters provide a wealth of detail about the life of the ordinary American soldier in Korea. He reflects the little documented in-ternational character of the Korean War when he writes in March 1952 of the Battle for Old Baldy: “The Ethiopians took Old Baldy from the Chinese but when they turned it over to us, we lost it again. The Ethiopians are going to try to get it back.”

The letters are also preoccupied by the drudgery of Army life and the weather, which nearly every soldier who served in Korea described as the coldest they had ever experi-enced in their lives. Writing in February 1952, Pierce says that he minds it most when he has to go to the toilet in nothing more than a trench. “Let me tell you,” he writes,

Edward L. PierceKorean War, 1950-1955

Branch: ArmyUnit: 48th Field Artillery

Battalion, 32nd Regiment, 7th Division

Service Location: Fort Riley, KSNorth Korea

Rank: CorporalPlace of Birth: Calumet City, IL

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KOREA

James A. SawvellVietnam War, 1961-1975Branch: ArmyUnit: 3rd Squadron, 4th Cavalry Regiment, 25th Infan-try Division; Company B, 4th Battalion, 37th Armored RegimentDates of Service: 1968-1971Service Location: Fort Jackson, South Carolina; Fort Knox, Kentucky; Fort Hood, Texas; Cu Chi, VietnamRank: Sergeant, E-5Place of Birth: Seattle, WA

James Sawvell enlisted in the Army to get out of going to Vietnam. His recruiter promised him Germany; his orders said Germany. The needs of the Army, however, called him to Vietnam, where he met his new unit, wounded and bloodied after just being ambushed by the North Vietnamese Army.

Sawvell took his duties as sergeant head on. Even after partially losing his hearing when he drove his tank over two land mines, he was eager for more action. Sawvell joined an ambush team as a platoon sergeant, going on mission after dangerous mission, many times skirting death. Not once did he lose a soldier under him. And when his tour in Vietnam was up, he tried to extend six months in Saigon but was turned down due to his hearing loss.

Sawvell returned to the States, making the tough transition from life in the jungle to having a McDonald’s down the street. He felt the effects of his wartime experiences but he would not let them consume him.

Photo by: Jeffrey PloskonkaIn this multiple exposure, the faces from sculptor Frederick Harfs’ soldier statue at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial reflect on the names of comrades killed or missing in Vietnam.

Photo courtesy : smithsonian.org James Sawvell Collection (AFC/2001/001/6036), Veterans History Project, American Folklife Center, Library of Congress

VIETNAM

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A tale in photographs. Jayel Aheram presents a photo set of things seen, experienced, and lived while serving in the harsh deserts of Iraq. A unique view of things rarely seen in the nightly newscast, a point-of-view of one troop in a war zone, and a glimpse of a vastlydifferent and sometimes beautiful Iraq.

Iraq Mosaic

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As I turned into the VA Hospital parking lot, I smiled at all the flags as they waved. To hear them beat against themselves in the wind sends a rush of great pride that I am allowed to be a part of the unique system that takes care of our veterans.

Up on the ward where I volunteer, I immediately knew things were bustling. The nurses were focused, and the aides had only enough time to smile at me to say hello. I noticed a new veteran. He was small in stature, and he sat behind the nurses’ station, which immedi-ately told me he is a handful.

The nurse manager looked flustered. It seems that when it rains it pours there. She quickly whis-pered to me, “Can you keep an eye on him? Don’t let him bother you much.” Because I am a nurse, she felt I was the best person outside of the nursing staff to handle him. I sat next to him and he grumbled something under his breath. There wasn’t much you could under-stand of his speech, but it was very apparent that he did not want me to contain him in his seat. He shouted at me and swore up and down he would punch me in the nose. I think I was called every name in the book that afternoon.

I love my veterans very much and I understand them. Sometimes I’m not sure where their anger stems from, but I know enough to respect it and the answer will come to me.

For weeks, I focused on bonding with him. He constantly tried to get out of his chair. He would look at me and say “We need to go upstairs!” There is no upstairs, but because I knew there must have been a reason for his insistence, I would smile at him, touch his hand and say, “We are going to stay right here dear.” He would look at me in complete disgust and grumble under his breath. The other veterans and family members watched every

week. I would come in and go directly to his side to sit with him. By this point the nurse aides were tired of him. He did nothing but berate them.

A month or so had passed with not much luck. As usual, I came in, took a deep breath and sat down at his side. He gently smiled at me. Wow, that was a first. I saw a jenga game on top of the cabinets and decided to take it down. It was worth a shot anyway. I poured the game out in front of him. Although he did not play the way intended, he did agree to build a tower with me. He did the best he could to stack the little blocks on top of one another. I was so happy to see him just sitting and enjoying something other than telling me off.

One of the other patients was being fed by his daughter. She watched as the little elderly vet and I engaged in a new rendition of jenga. She said, “I’m impressed.” I tried to ignore her comment but she con-tinued about how amazing it was that I was able to settle him down. I finally said to her, “I did not do anything that wonderful.” Another veteran who watched each week as

Photo courtesy U.S. D

ept. of Veterans Affairs

By Jennifer Russo Loia

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I tried to make this man trust me and like me, wheeled himself over. He pulled a paper from the side of his wheelchair and said, “But it is.”

I took the paper from his hand. As I read it, I realized my little veteran was a POW during WWII. He was held captive by the Gestapo. They beat him and they broke his hands. The answer had come to me. The veteran that had finally quieted down watched intently as I read about him. He saw me start to cry at the pain he had to endure. I put the article down, smiled gently at him, and I took his hands in mine and I kissed them.

I understand now why it is so hard for him to sit in that wheelchair and, although I can’t change the fact that he must sit there for his own safety, I am gentle when he gets up. I will do my best never to make him feel confined. And although we can’t go upstairs, we can go in another room and hopefully that helps him cope.

I am truly honored to be a part of his life. He is an amazing man. Since this happened he has not berated me or told me to leave. He looks at me now and says “Where have you been?” Being the caretaker to veterans is a blessing always. I will forever hold his hands in mine and feel honor for the chance to be among the strongest of the strong.

I took the paper from his hand.

As I read it, I realized my little

veteran was a POW during

WWII.

The Fourth and the Flag and Freedom

less the Lord, O my soulO God, You are my Goal

Clothed in Splendor and MajestyWrapped in a Robe

You Established the EarthOn Its Foundations

You are a Rock for the Nations

We Send up Fireworks unto the Sky

We are Proud as we Raise the Flag so High

Families Gather at the Lake or Parks

To Sing, Rejoice Around a Bonfirewith Sparks

Lots to Eat and DrinkBut this is also a time to

Reflect and Think

What Really do we CelebrateWith the Fourth, the Flag and

Freedom

Here is one man’s viewIt is probably nothing new

A Flag of any Nationis full of color and lines

A symbol of our history and times

We salute, we sing, we prayIt is usually unfurled,

night and day

B The Flag Carries the Honor (Dishonor) of the People

and the land It Waves Proudly asBowed Heads Stand

After the Revolution We became Free

Then a new Flag for all to seeMuch blood shed for the causeWhile we celebrate the Fourth

We should heartily pause

Do we praise God as we should?Love – Help our Neighbor

as we could?Sacrifice our pleasures for the

common good?

Do we invest for the PeopleBy the People

With other People

Are we honest with IntegrityGive our Life for true Liberty

What yet remains to solveAbout the Natives,

here we found?

About the persons brought hereWith hands and feet bound?

On this Fourth, with our Flagand Faith

Let Us FreedomHighly Resolve!

USA

By Father Anthony Wozniak

USA

Photo Courtesy U

.S.Navy by Journalist 2nd C

lass David P. C

oleman

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Life in the

Fast Lane

My first car had racing stripes. Months after purchasing it, I found out what the long black lines on each side of the car were when a mechanic asked, “Do you want the chips on your racing stripes filled in?”

Someone had ordered the Plymouth early in 1968, then, when it arrived, rejected it for a bigger car. In the intervening months, no one else had wanted it. It wasn’t even dusted off anymore, like the flashier cars at the front of the lot. On that Novemeber day, at the end of the dealer year, the car sat there, looking forlorn, not racy.

It was compact, smaller than most on the road. It was even designated as a “compact,” a new term. Somehow, to me, the compact seemed sturdy, a dependable commuter car for getting me to my job. Most importantly, it was the right price. So, surrendering all thought of the low-slung British sports car I really wanted, I wrote out a check for a down payment, told the salesman not to cash the check until Monday, and drove off the lot in my very first car, a brand new Barracuda.

Driving home, I mused that “Plymouth” and “Barracuda” just didn’t seem to go together, nor did they go together with me. To me, a Plymouth was a plain, ordinary, middle class car. A barracuda was dangerous, slashing through the water, eating everything in sight, even people. I wasn’t a Plymouth, and I certainly wasn’t a barracuda. What was I doing, driving this car? Construction workers whistled, and truck drivers beeped. Was it for me, or for my car?

By the end of three years, just as I wrote the last payment check and

made the car mine, not the bank’s, people began urging me to trade the car in for a new model. The warranty was up; the car would soon begin to fail; better get rid of it now, people said. However, I loved that extra hundred a month that had been going out for payments, and I hated paperwork. A new car would put me back where I had been three years ago. I decided to keep the car a bit longer.

Years passed. Each time I thought of buying a new car, the thought of payments and notifications to the insurance company and the state motor vehicle department deterred me. The car aged, and different parts kept going out. Like a student in auto shop, I learned from the car’s behavior. Creakings and groanings as I turned a corner alerted me to the need to replace universal joints. A failure to start told me the butterfly valve on the carburetor was stuck. The same day I walked out of the doctor’s office, knowing my right breast would be probed for cancer, I learned that the right engine mount had broken.

Then, on one of the rainiest days in the history of the state, I rolled off the freeway with an empty tank of gas. The gas gauge had broken. A colleague, flashing by on his way to work, saw me roll off into the mud. Actually, he didn’t see me, hesaw my car and knew who was in it. So, in the days before cell phones, I had an immediate ride to an off-ramp phone, where I called for a tow.

A few minutes later, my husband flashed by the car on his way to work. Knowing no one else who drove a gold Barracuda with a black top and racing stripes, he pulled over and peered in. Not seeing me, he thought, “Now what would she

do?” He knew. “She’d go call, then buy a paper and have a cup of coffee.” I was scanning the headlines at the coffee shop at the nearest off ramp when my husband, dripping wet, walked in and joined me for coffee.

Eventually, I couldn’t even get replacement parts for the car. I discovered a whole sub-strata of American culture: the junked car circuit. Like an archaeologist on a historical dig, I picked through car remains, looking for just the part that my mechanic needed.

This car, I realized, had become a laboratory experiment. How long and how far would it run? At a quarter of a million miles, I considered volunteering for a Plymouth ad. I was indeed a satisfied customer.

A few thousand miles later, I had the engine rebuilt. When a construc-tion worker smiled or a trucker honked, I realized it wasn’t for me; it was for my car. When a young man ran all the way across a parking lot to comment on its “straight trim bod,” I wasn’t even jealous. Somehow it all seemed fair. It was my plain Plymouth’s turn.

Driving down a city boulevard, adolescents leaned out of their cars and gave me the thumbs up. Drivers in older cars honked as I passed by. Wherever I went, people told me stories about their first cars or gave me tidbits of information on mine. I realized how modern my car was. Like television and computers, it had become interactive.

Random conversations taught me a lot. The engine was a 318, in cubic inches that is, a large engine for the weight of the car. I learned why it was named a Barracuda. Its speed

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Life in the

Fast LaneBy P.C. Moorehead

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USA

made it a favorite of stock car racers and police officers. I always knew I could out-accelerate anything on the road, and that gave me a sense of security. No wonder, as several people told me, it was called “the engine that never dies.”

I even spruced the car up once and took it to a car show for Chrysler products. My husband and I were the oldest people there. I made sure to line the Plymouth up by a less than perfect model, so it would look especially good. “Yes, I explained to questioners, “it’s a 318, a small eight cylinder. It has the engine that never dies.” As I spoke, my husband, the tech whiz, roamed behind the questioners, rolling his eyes – his wife, the liberal arts major, was talking engines with the guys.

The car lovers responded enthusiastically. “This car’s in the special interest category now. Soon it will be an antique.” I nodded sympathetically, knowing just how that felt.

The car and I, together, grew older. At 350,000 miles, my universal joints creaked, not just when turning corners. Occasionally, my butterfly valve stuck. The right engine mount? Well, that was long gone. I remind myself, this is the engine that never dies.

It didn’t. A special interest car, it brought good money to the charity that auctioned it off on the Internet. Some-times, as I tool along on the freeway in my hybrid, I think I see the Barracuda flying through the rain. It’s old, but it’s still dangerous. After all, it has racing stripes.

‘65 Barracuda - Vintage car paintings by Gwendolyn

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The Junked Car

CulturePhotos by

Robert Oswald

“Eventually, I couldn’t even get replacement parts for the car. I discovered a whole sub-strata of American culture: the junked car circuit. Like an archaeologist on a historical dig, I picked through car remains, looking for just the part that my mechanic needed.”

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StoryCorpsEvery voice matters.

Recorded interviews are added to the StoryCorps Archive, housed at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress. StoryCorps participants receive a broadcast quality copy of their interview on CD at the end of their session.

StoryCorps operates several special initiatives, including

the Griot Initiative, the Memory Loss Initiative, and the

September 11th Initiative.

The Griot Initiative

StoryCorps Griot is an ongoing initiative to ensure that the voices, experiences, and life stories of African Americans will be preserved and presented with dignity. All interviews recorded as part of the Griot Initiative will be archived at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History & Culture in addition to the Library of Congress.

Memory Loss Initiative

In 2006, StoryCorps launched an initiative to reach out to people affected by memory loss. The aim is to support and encourage people with memory loss to share their stories. The project is guided by an advisory board of nationally recog-nized leaders in the field of memory loss, and all interviews are facili-tated by a specially trained staff.

©

StoryCorps is an independent nonprofit whose mission is to provide Americans of all backgrounds and beliefs with the opportunity to record, share, and preserve the stories of our lives. Since 2003, StoryCorps has collected and archived more than 40,000 interviews from nearly 80,000 participants. Each conver-sation is recorded on a free CD to share, and is preserved at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress. StoryCorps is one of the largest oral history projects of its kind.

StoryCorps began this endeavor to remind one another of our shared humanity, strengthen and build the connections between people, teach the value of listen-ing, and weave into the fabric of our culture the understanding that every life matters. While at the same time, creating an invaluable archive of American voices and wisdom for future generations.

StoryCorps launched the first National Day of Listening in 2008 to encourage families to linger a little longer in the holiday spirit by interviewing a loved one on the day after Thanksgiving. StoryCorps felt strongly that in this time of economic hardship, recording a loved one is the least expensive and most meaningful gift one could give during the holiday season.

StoryCorps Legacy

StoryCorps partners with organiza-tions that serve people with life-threatening conditions and their families. These include hospice care, palliative care, and disease-specific organizations. They assist their partners in incorporating the StoryCorps interview experience into their existing services by train-ing and preparing them to conduct and record interviews using equipment that they provide.

National Teachers Initiative

The Initiative celebrates the bril-liant and courageous work of public school teachers across the country. By recording, and preserving their stories, the hope is to call public attention to the invaluable con-tributions teachers have made to this nation, honor those who have embraced the profession as their calling, encourage teaching as a career choice, and unify the coun-try behind its teachers—helping us all recognize that there is no more important or noble work than that of educating our nation’s children.

Mobile Tour Outreach

StoryCorps Mobile Booths, Airstream trailers outfitted with recording studios, travel the country year-round. Partnering with local public radio stations and organiza-tions, to reach out to the widest range of people in each community.

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September 11th Initiative

In 2005, StoryCorps began a special initiative to honor and remember the stories of September 11, 2001. Stories of survivors, rescue workers, and all those most personally and immediately affected by September 11th are encouraged to conttribute. With permission, interviews become part of the collection at the National September 11 Memorial and Museum, in addition to the Library of Congress.

.

“If we truly want peace in the world, let us begin by loving one another in our own families. If we want to spread joy, we need for

every family to have joy.” Mother Teresa

In his book, All There Is, StoryCorps founder Dave Isay shares stories of love and marriage, revealing the many and remarkable paths that relation-ships can take. From the excitement of courtship to the deep connection of lifelong commitment, we discover that love is found in the most unex-pected of places—a New York toll booth, a military base in Iraq, an airport lounge. These stories are a testament to love’s remarkable endurance.

StoryCorps Historias

StoryCorps Historias is an initiative to record, preserve, and share the stories of Latinos across the U.S. In partnership with the Latino Public Radio Consortium, Latino USA, the U.S. Latino and Latina World War II Oral History Project, StoryCorps Historias has become one of the largest collections of Latino voices ever gathered.

Carmen & Mary ValentinoLetchworth State Park, 1943

USA

New York City Outreach

StoryCorps provides access to their unique experience by partnering with New York communities that may otherwise encounter barriers to participation. Through commu-nity partnerships, hundreds of New Yorkers and New York City organi-zations have recorded interviews at the Lower Manhattan StoryBooth, reflecting a wide variety of voices and creating a growing portrait of who we are as a nation.

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Eccentric and Quirky

These three words say it all. There’s just too much to take in: truck stop movie theaters showing Disney films, guys dressed up as bunnies asking for carrot money, and then there’s McMenamins — historic buildings converted to bars, hotels and cinemas. The food’s not great, service is often bad, but the McMenamins are always all packed. Nobody cares.

Off-beat people from all over the country move to Portland so they can live together in peace. Everywhere you turn there’s a sketchy, drifter look across faces, but they all mean well. And the rain stops nothing. Mothers are jogging with their babies in the middle of steady downpours. They’re hearty, healthy and recycle like it’s their job.

Regular water fountains wouldn’t be weird enough, so in 1912 a Portland philanthropist (Simon Benson) created the Benson Bubbler. These handsome little drinking fountains are all over the downtown area.

Video gamers like “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater” and “Grind Session” made Burnside famous, but this skatepark underneath the Burnside Bridge has a life of its own. Someone’s always getting time in, and if you stop by on Monday morning you’ll see old-timers practicing a few tricks before heading off to work.

...and that’s how they like it. By Geff Zamor

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It was recommended I try the maple bacon donut at Voodoo’s and this turned out to be a very bad idea. The maple glaze slaps you across the face and you know you’ve done something wrong. If you can bite far enough down to grab a piece of bacon you’ll wish you hadn’t. It’s too savory, too sweet and not for tourists. Grab a glazed or a standard voodoo and be happy you did. <

Lots of building facades have been remodeled but the artwork on the back remains.

I was obsessed with catching the front of a Union Pacific engine when, all of a sudden, a military transport train passed by just as the sky opened up and the rain started to fall. >

There has to be a Powell’s Books in heaven. It’s supposedly the largest independent new and used bookstore in the world, but that’s not important. What is important is that they have everything. Each section is color coded, and once you walk into one you’re stuck there for at least an hour.

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And if I wasn’t already impressed with the city, then came the green. The woods are lush and thick. I got lots of suggestions for where to go hiking but the two most picturesque trails

were in Forest Park and Silver Falls.

It’s a town full of amazing, quirky people, and they won me over very quickly. I’ll be doing a lot more in the rain now that I’ve spent so much time with the Portlanders.

It’s sad to leave, but I’ll definitely be back.

Chronicles of a Restless Soldier - All photos by Geff Zamor USA

36 Our USA Magazine

There are many ways to build on the “Buy American” movement, whether it’s through consumer pur-chases, writing encouraging letters to the editor of your local newspaper, or even pushing for more local, state, and national ‘Buy American’ laws.

But there is one other way to create jobs and bolster American prosper-ity that hasn’t been utilized very much, at least on a nationally-coordinated scale, and that is through the thousands of fundraisers that routinely take place across America. You probably know them, some of you have probably organized them, and others of you may have run them – PTA wrapping paper sales, Little League candy drives, choir “Spirit Wear” sales, and many, many, more.

Recently, a new non-profit organi-zation sprang up and it’s got just the kind of focus that caught my

attention: American-made fundrais-ing. This group is about helping organizations find American-made fundraising ideas. And in doing so, they are creating a perfect win-win situation: they’re helping folks raise money for good causes, and they’re helping them support American jobs at the same time. Their name? A Day to Market America.

Janet Dukic, founder of A Day to Market America, started with herown local school in Oak Lawn, IL. Janet took action when she saw that her children had no option other than to peddle imported products from China and various othercountries, as a way to raise money for the school district. She posed the question to her local school board, “Given the choice, would everyone rather be selling Ameri-can-made goods in support of our schools?” She was delighted to find she had unanimous agreement.

And why not? It makes perfect sense. Since our local schools receive a certain percentage of fed-eral funding, we should be support-ing American workers– those same workers who are paying into the U.S. Treasury from which we draw those same funds that are going toward educating our kids. Any-thing less would be hypocritical.

The types of products sourced from China that Janet Dukic has seen as offerings for local fundraisers include wrapping paper, stickers, candles, and an interesting product called “Smencils.”

I bet there are some of you thinking, as I was, “Smencils? What in the world are Smencils?” They’re pen-cils that are made out of recycled newspapers, and come in varieties that smell like cherries, root beer, watermelon, orange, cinnamon, etc. So while they may receive high

Made in America

By Roger Simmermaker

“New Deal” WPA Art by Charles Wells, Clarkson S. Fisher Federal Building & U.S. Courthouse, Trenton, NJ Photo - Carol M. Highsmith

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marks for helping the environment (if you ignore the large amount of pollution that will enter the atmo-sphere when large ocean vessels transport them from China), low marks are given for buying them because it drains wealth out of the American economy, and lower marks still for missing out on a huge opportunity to support American jobs.

A Day to Market America helps organizations band together to make bulk purchases so they can acquire the American-made goods they seek at a lower price.

A Day to Market America can help you establish relationships to achieve your group’s goals. For example, schools can unite and buy as a district, a community, or even a bigger group. A local teacher could go out and buy imported dual pocket folders on their own for full price, or working together with other teachers in other schools in his or her district, that teacher could buy the American-made brands in bulk and save money to boot!

No longer will your children have to come home with fundraising options that raise money for worthy American causes while simultane-ously sending money to China. We have a huge opportunity to redirect American dollars, which might previously have been destined to foreign lands, to our own back yards instead. It’s all about chal-lenging your local school board, Little League, or Girl or Boy Scout troop to think differently about how they raise funds.

There are more companies, cor-porations, and organizations on board than you might expect. Little Caesar’s offers pizza kits with all

American-made dough and toppings. Some Jewel stores (a Chicago-area supermarket chain) have employees involved in community service programs that build American jobs. A Chicago-area American Drafting & Design Association chapter of ITT Technical Institute has switched to strictly American-made products for their fundraisers.

Whether it’s American-made chocolate bars, t-shirts, pencils (not the imported “smencils” kind) or even copies of “How Americans

L. C. King Manufacturing in Bristol TN makes the Pointer Brand High Back, Low Back and Carpenter Overalls, and a wide array of other denim products. All are Made in the USA with American source raw materials. Established in 1913, the company remains owned by the founding family fourgenerations later. www.pointerbrand.com

Can Buy American” bought in bulk, the idea is to offer fundraising products and services that support American workers, for a better American economy we can all enjoy.

American-made options are out there for fundraising opportunities. All we need to do is convert our desire for American-made products into a very real demand for them.

Want to get involved or find out more? I encourage you to visit www.adaytomarketamerica.org.

Hanky Panky, the lingerie phenomenon coveted by celebrities and fashion conscious women worldwide, is dedicated to innovative design, comfort, quality and U.S. production. Born in New York and still producing domestically in its 34th year. www.hankypanky.com

Products Proudly Made in the U

SA - For Years

38 Our USA Magazine

I Pledge Allegiance A Hometown Tribute to the Author By Tony D’Imperio

Born in Mount Morris, NY in 1855, Pledge of Allegiance author Francis Bellamy might have “looked down” on us and enjoyed the honor that a stamp cancellation occurred on his May 18th birthday in 2005.

There is no U.S. Postal Service Francis Bellamy stamp that can be used in an official mailing, so a committee of Mount Morris resi-dents devised its own version of a pictorial, hand-stamped cancellation.

Committee Chair Joe Christiano, co-chair Bob Priviterra, and postmaster Gary Passamonte made arrangements for the “birthday party” at the post office and the sale of the postmarked envelope.

The envelope, with its one-time stamp cancellation, is a collector’s item. It sold for $2 and the proceeds were donated to the Mount Morris Historical Society at Mills Mansion.

Cash donations to the event were made by the local Kiwanis and Rotary Clubs, while high school art teacher Chris Spic-ciati coordinated a poster contest with the

In June 1924, Francis Bellamy published an article describing how he came to write the original Pledge of Allegiance. He wrote: “At the beginning of the nineties [1890s] patriotism and national feeling were at low ebb. The patriotic ardor of the Civil War was an old story. The country was in a period of dazzling prosperity, and the chase for the dollar was most on people’s minds.”

“The time was ripe for a reawaken-ing of simple Americanism, and the leaders of the new movement rightly felt that patriotic education should begin in the public schools.”

Bellamy, a Baptist minister, penned the Pledge of Allegiance in 1892while on a committee preparing for the 400th anniversary of Columbus’discovery of America. The event included a flagraising, and Bellamy wanted a brief but stirring message for the ceremony.

His original version is: “I pledge allegiance to my Flag and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

In 1923, the National Flag Confer-ence, under the leadership of the

American Legion and the Daughters of the American Revolu-tion, changed the Pledge’s words, “my Flag,” to “the Flag.” Bellamy disliked this change, but his pro-test was ignored.

In 1954, Congress, after a campaign by the Knights of Columbus, added the words, “under God,” to the Pledge. The Pledge was now both a patriotic oath and a public prayer.

USA

Tough Traveler has been designing and manufacturing in the United States for 40 years!

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As the American Made Chic team travels across the country they will present a company or individual in each of their assigned destinations an award for the desire to strive for excellence in community, economy or new product development.

Awards will be given based on the following categories:

• Old/New Individual or company that has success-fully established new and outstanding plans or designs of a historic area for community or economy.

• InnovationMade outstanding contributions by participating in or implementing the production, planning and implementa-tion of a new product made in America.

• Passion and Sustainability Demonstrated outstanding commitment and courage for keeping the American Dream alive. Continue to operate a third or fourth generation business by providing jobs to local communities and contributions to his or her own legacy.

The American Made Chic Summer Tour launched in a red, white and blue bus from the Kentucky Derby. Its aim is to create awareness for jobs, manu-facturing, products and all things Made in the USA.

Lead sponsors of this tour includeMade in USA Certified – USA-C.com, I Choose American – IchooseAmerican.com, and Posh Events – makeitposh.net.

The American Made Chic Tour

Recipients of the award will receive a custom-created masterpiece by R.S. Owens & Company, Chicago, IL.

The Great American GiveawayFollow the American Made Chic tour. When you see the traveling bus with the American Made Chic logo you have the opportunity to enter the “Great American Give-away.” Look for the bus in one of the following cities :

Nashville, Tennessee - June ‘12Daytona, Florida - July ‘12

Detroit, Michigan - August ‘12

Take your picture in front of the bus with the American Made Chic ladies or capture a photo of the bus on the road. Post your photo on their Facebook page and you may win a wonderful collection of all American made products worth thousands of dollars. No purchase necessary.

Follow at AmericanMadeChic.com

40 Our USA Magazine

How Did I Become the Old One? By Dennis Page

Photo - Scott M. Liddell

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How Did I Become the Old One? By Dennis Page

The question is so simplistic and the answer is somewhat involved. One day I was a child and the next day I asked, “How did I get to be the old one?” Growing up I knew my great grandfather on my moth-er’s side of the family, both of my great grandparents on my father’s side, grandparents, great uncles and aunts, uncles and aunts and numer-ous cousins. We weren’t necessar-ily a large family, but we were big enough where I had a difficult time remembering names and relations.

Unfortunately, I was an only child. For those of you who had siblings, that statement alone most likely causes pause to fantasize about not sharing toys, clothes, bedrooms and, most impor-tantly, affection from parents and family members. However, from my perspective, it would have been heaven sent if there were brothers or sisters to share the spotlight with.

“We’re going with your grandmother to visit Aunt Flossy and Uncle Jim, honey, so hurry up and get ready,” would be my mother’s command. “Let’s get going, your grandmother and I are going shopping,” which, at times, involved me sitting there like a boy in detention, while the two ladies I loved most were busily being fitted for brassieres. “Oh please don’t let any of my schoolmates see me here,” would be the screaming voice in my head. I was hauled off to the local smoke-filled fire stations, Elks Clubs or churches to sit and listen to the din of “G19–B6 –O66,” during horrid, long and monotonous bingo games. If only I had brothers and sisters they could

have taken my spot, while I made excuses to play ball, have a sleepover at my friend’s house, go to the movies, or a host of other options that didn’t involve me hanging out with the family all of the time.

As a youngster, we didn’t have computers, video games, DVDs, CDs, cell phones, or any of the myriad of electronic distractions that abound in the world today.

When the family went for a ride

in the car, our time was spent in conversation, sightseeing or play-ing road trip games. Even FM radio didn’t come on the scene until the 1960s. We sat around a dining room table with relatives and played penny ante Rummy or “Jacks or Better” poker. We discussed things. We knew each other. We above all, loved each other.

Yet, as a child this could all be so boring! It really wasn’t that bad,because at one house there would be homemade donuts served; another grandmother would make southern-style fried chicken; a great aunt pan-fried fresh water perch; another made apple butter; and another relative would play the banjo. I lived a childhood filled with people interacting with other people.

My God, I can vividly still see and smell the room my grandmother was in as she sipped her coffee

(sometimes it was from the day before), a Viceroy cigarette in her right hand, smiling at me with all the love the world could hold as we chatted the hours away, all the time figuring out her jigsaw puzzle.

Her husband, who I called “Pop,” was a Norwegian immigrant, and a wordsmith of wordsmiths. Althoughhe spoke in broken English, he also knew proper grammar and heaven help the poor soul that bastardized a word in his presence. His concrete exterior intimidated the strongest,

however, if you sat, listened, observed and talked, you soon learned that Pop’s heart was putty, and deep down

inside he really was an old softy.

One by one the pillars of the encircled coliseum which defined my life started to crumble and fall. As if the Pearly Gates were having a grand opening, my family started to form a line. By natural progression, first to leave were my great grand-parents, followed by my grandpar-ents. Sadly, but surely, my aunts and uncles, and, ultimately, my parents all died. Gone were the smiles, con-versations, card games, jokes, story telling and the hugs and kisses. The physical beings who were my role models and mentors have crossed over, and each is missed in their own special way.

So it came to pass, one day I awoke and became the “Old One” in the family. I wish I could offer up some sage, worldly advice for the younger family members, but they’re savvy enough to just Google most of life’s questions.

4� Our USA Magazine

From My Window WindowBy Michael DiCerto

Looking out my third floor window when I was a kid was like peering down at some Felini-esque circus on acid. No surrealist painter could ever reach the heights of bi-zarreness that I witnessed. Nor can the deftest poet match the subtleties of wonder, strange pleasures and absurdities that existed in East Harlem during my peak years of impressionability. I can’t say anyone else ever looked twice, but for me it was better than cartoons, and impacted me more than anything I ever saw on TV. It was heaven and hell rolled in a wad of Bazooka bubble gum. With comic.

I lived in a two-bedroom walk up on 118th street between First and Pleasant Avenue in East Harlem, New York City. It was the 70s – a pre-digital era when spam was a gelatinous square of meat. With two parents, three sisters, and a dog in our apartment, plus a gaggle of imaginary friends in my head, sometimes I needed to peer out to wider and more open spaces. Inevitably, I would discover even more characters to add to the pantheon of my wackadoo six-year- old imagination. Boobie Coolie. Door Locker. Charlie Ding Ding. Bar Beasley. The Red Headed Hunchback. Babaif Zoom. Rhyming Ralph. Window Window. To this day they seem interchangeable. The apostles of Pleasant. Related. Some imagi-nary. Some very real. All unique. And strangely, all very normal. It is not until I reflect back do I get the vibes of oddness.

Bar Beasly was the chimney of a

building across the yards. DoorLocker was – well – a door across the street and was neighbors with Window Window. Babaif Zoom’s origin is vague – although he did live on the ferris wheel in Palisades Amusement park.

By far, the most interesting char-acters were the real ones my imagination could never create but only ponder. Boobie Coolie made model cars and, I under-stand, quite adeptly. I have never seen one of the finished trophies of his hobby, but often he would point to parked cars on Pleasant Avenue and announce “I made that car last week.” I imagined great secret rooms – like showrooms for Stewart Little – where thousands of plastic vehicles were on display. I have seen not a one.

To this day, he wears his hair in a pompadour with Elvis-like side-burns. In the summer, you can see him in his Hawaiian shirts and powder blue polyester shorts with matching patent leather shoes and thick-framed, matching sunglasses. He seems to have imagined himself a veteran of East Harlem – a victim of misunderstanding. A sad loner. A soldier of a war of mockery. He may be right. When riding on the First Avenue bus with him on various occasions, he would cry out “Hit the beach!” as we came closer to our neighborhood.

Charlie Ding Ding strutted down the street like Foghorn Leghorn, complete with a thinning plume of hair that bobbed with each heavy step like a rooster’s comb. Baggy shorts and a “Guido” t-shirt were

his typical costume – he was a victim of the drug culture in East Harlem. The story was that he still had a bullet lodged in his head. I remember this lump on the right side of his skull, but whether or not it was a slug fired in anger I have no clue. Myth and reality and its effects on memory is a tricky thing. His mother used to run a candy store on Pleasant Avenue, and was our next door neighbor when we moved.

This atmosphere of eccentrics, lost souls, misfits and sociopaths pro-foundly affected me and inevitably my writing which began when I was five years old.

When you grew up in Harlem, especially in the 1970s as I did, you saw things from your window the folks of Pahrump probably have not. An exploding car, a riot, numerous bullet-ridden and stabbed bodies, James Caan, the snot lady, fireworks (that would embarrass the Grucci’s), a sniper, Al Pacino, my Aunt Dee Dee, a live turkey, flare guns, dynamite, rockets, junkies, block parties, UFOs, lemonade stands and a couple of pretty girls who caught my young attention.

A window is a like a video camera that gets wired and filtered through your own software of wants and perceptions. A window is not just the square architectural feature on your building. It’s portable. It floats in front of our heads like a cartoon bubble of an arcade game avatar, and is with us every step we take in life. Every time we trip, or jump a pothole. Everything we watch, witness and gawk at is recorded and

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Photo - East HarlemBy Jason Kuffer

44 Our USA Magazine

filed away. My own personalsecretary is not a frigid court stenographer, however. He’s more like an old Irish beer maker, tale-telling in a pub. Or a psychedelic journeyman keeping a diary amongst the Elves. It’s how great mythologies are born. Hyper- memorized truths. Colorized a touch. Ro-manticized some. The cream of the memory rising to the top like a good head and the darker bits settling on the bottom of the glass to be dealt with (or ignored) later. I collect minutia the way some people collect episodes of old TV shows. I habitually reminisce. There was a lot to collect in my old neighborhood and being blessed (or cursed) with an imagination that never stopped, it was all good stuff to trip on.

East Harlem, in the 70s, was a mix of blue collar Italians and Puerto Ricans. (As the neighborhood took a downturn, many of the Italians moved to the white bread suburbs. Most regretted it later.) The Washburn wire factory that sat along the FDR drive employed much of the neighbor-hood. I think the first word I learned to read was W-A-S-H-B-U-R-N, whose giant sign spanned a walkway a block away at the end of 118th Street between Pleasant and the Drive. I was fascinated by its huge, yellow brick smokestack, and dreamed of one day climbing it. I never did and, to my sadness, it was

demolished in the 80s.

Like any neighborhood of any major city where the economics are on the low end of the spectrum, there was a constant criminal element. That shadow of potential violence always hung over the

neighborhood like the chance ofshowers on a hot August afternoon. The impact of that is tremendous, especially on kids. It affected where you walked (and didn’t). It honed and sharpened that human instinct for danger. A shout would often be ignored – but a certain kind of shout, a certain pitch of the human voice – meant trouble, and your ears would perk up, your eyes

widen, and you would twist your body so you could run for cover at a moment’s notice. Firecrackers werefirecrackers. Random. Spastic. Bada babababab badaba! Gun shots were cold and regular. A nasty heartbeat: BAM, BAM, BAM. The latter had one message – get the

hell inside! I heard that warning all too often.

Most humor in my neighborhood was black humor. Again, it is the nature of that combination of violence and finance. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. A guy that flips off his bike and gets hit by a car is tragic. A guy that lands on his ass and survives is hysterically funny. It is all about that fine line between death and survival. If you were lucky enough to escape the Reaper you can glance back at the shrouded bastard and laugh. If we are products of our surroundings, it’s no wonder I am a misfit amongst misfits. Imagination

is surely a double-edged sword. Story-telling ability is a steady date with paranoia. They love to slow dance. Was my imagination created or nurtured by the orgy of charac-ters I was born into? Whatever the answer, the mark on my psyche is indelible. And for that I must be grateful.

Photo -Patsy’s Pizzeria, East HarlemBy Paul Lowry USA

Our USA Magazine 45

Yes, we’ve all been there—two in the morning, listening to dec-larations of “fabulous” and “life changing.” Admittedly, I have fallen for this ploy. I have been sucked in by the claims. It’s really hard not to. The world is quiet and still, and these amazing actors are your closest neighbors telling you about the most miraculous product that will definitely save you tons of money, no matter what you spend in the next few moments. And it’s all about relating; you find yourself feeling close to these old pals that remind you of someone you knew well but haven’t spoken to in forever. These are the friends that let you cheat off of them in high school. Love them! Trust them! Not!

I’m not a big online or phone purchaser. I like the option of a quick return. I tend to change my mind. That’s the problem I run into. Returns are a pain. And even if they try to make it uncomplicated, going to the post office stinks. It’s much easier to get ‘er done with a trip to the mall or department store, and actually be done. No waiting. Visa is credited. Done. But occasionally I just can’t resist those smiling faces on QVC.

My good friend Kathy recently had pneumonia—it cost her $160 on QVC. Make-up and purses. QVC is a smart company. They put regular gals on the show, not too skinny, not too fat. These are ladies you could be friends with—at least long enough to spend a few bucks. They pat you on the back every single step of the way. They even have easy pay. They coddle you through

the entire process. You go girl—spend—spend—spend.

One of the issues that I detest, and recently threw to the wind, is the automatic monthly charge. Oh, it sucks! I swore off those after months of acne medication piled up in my teenager’s bathroom. But I actually did it again. I ordered the Wen Hair Care system. My hair has been a pain in the butt since I had an ovary removed. Hair care products are my current weakness.Anyway, I freakin’ love this stuff and have literally forced several co-workers to order it. Sorry girls! It’s all natural yadda, yadda, yadda. You get the idea. I wish I had checked the Internet before ordering though. It’s also available at QVC and Amazon. Shop the deals, ladies. They’re out there. Automatic shipment canceled!

As good friends we have to share our favorite finds. If you buy something that sucks—tell your girlfriends. If you find something amazing—share with them.

The infomercial is our friend and our foe. I was hit in my weak spot—my hair. I don’t regret the purchase and possibly you have found terrific products as well. I hope so. It’s just an area in which we need to be careful. Those smiling faces are not our friends. They did not share Algebra answers with us. Don’t forget that. And you don’t need au-tomatic dish rag delivery for the rest of your life—no matter what they tell you. Be skeptical. Be smart! I’m just sayin’.

I’m Just Sayin’ By Shelly Gail Morris

USA

46 Our USA Magazine

BookCrossing

BookCrossing is the act of releasing books “into the wild” and then following their journeys and the lives they touch.

BookCrossing is an innovative place where more than a million people in over 130 countries come to share their passion for books with the world.

The idea for BookCrossing began with CEO Ron Hornbaker and partners Heather and Bruce Pedersen in March 2001. The website was launched about four weeks later on April 17, 2001. Word trickled out on the web, bringing new members slowly but steadily, until March 2002 when a one-page story in Book Magazine started an avalanche of global press and media attention that continues today.

Here’s how it works. BookCrossers register their books (the ones they know they’ll never read again) at www.bookcrossing.com. Each book registered on BookCrossing receives its very own BCID (BookCrossing ID number), which enables members to “tag and track” the book as it journeys through life. The book itself is labeled with the BCID number and site information, then left somewhere (released) for someone else to find. People who

find (“catch” in BookCrossing lingo) a wild book are invited to visit the website to see where the book has been and what previous readers have thought about it. They can make an entry about the book anonymously, or join BookCrossing (it’s free) and track the book’s future travels. Journal entries are relayed to all previous readers by a secure messaging system so that they, too, can follow the book’s adventures.

BookCrossing is both a local and global phenomenon. There are members in over 130 countriesfrom Antarctica to Zimbabwe. The top five BookCrossing countries are USA 29%, Germany 16%, UK 13%,Netherlands 11%, and Findland 10%followed by Canada, Australia, France, Portugal and Spain to round out the top ten.

Within each country, BookCross-ers are busy reading and releasing books at the local level in their cities and towns. Climb a moun-tain and you may find a book. Take a cruise, and you may meet up with a BookCrossed book. Stop for coffee at your local java joint, and there may be one there. Anywhere people can go with a book in hand, BookCrossing books can be found, from hotels, restaurants, grocery stores, shopping malls, coffee shops, and parks to all types of

public transportation around the globe.

Readers, writers, teachers, students, women, men, parents, singles, octogenarians, little ones, business execs, geeks, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers -- it’s hard to find a segment of the world’s popu-lation not represented in the over one million BookCrossers who have joined the site. And they’ve regis-tered over 5 million books! About 300 new members join BookCross-ing each day. Membership is free, so all that is required is access to the Internet, a love of books, a sense of fun, and an interest in checking out BookCrossing!

BookCrossing combines serendipity, adventure, altruism and literature in a unique mix that true bibliophiles find irresistible. With its similarity to releasing messages in a bottle, or notes in helium balloons, BookCrossing hearkens back to fond childhood memories. With its strong connection and focus on literacy throughout the world, BookCrossing makes the whole world a library.

BookCrossing is earth-friendly, and gives you a way to share your books, clear your shelves, and conserve precious resources at the same time. A book registered on BookCrossing is ready for adventure! Join BookCrossing. (http://bookcrossing.com). Help make the whole world a library and share the joy of literacy. Reading becomes an adventure when you BookCross!

A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold. ~ Henry Miller The Books of my Life

USA

Our USA Magazine 47

Verbal Visual Creativity& By Phil SweetlandOne of the toughest challenges

any kid faces is overcoming the very natural fear of the dark. Debra and Glenn Harrison and their adorable daughter, Emily Grace, suffered through and won that battle together. Afterwards, Debra wrote and illustrated a children’s book that told their real-world, real-life story in words and unforgettable illustrations that every mother and child will love.

Creatures in My Room, Harrison’s first book, is a remarkable piece with nearly 50 pages, dozens of Debra’s watercolors, and narrative told completely in rhyme.

“Emily was afraid of the dark, and she would see little creatures out of the piles of clothes or other objects in the house,” Debra says in a phone conversation from her home in Titusville, Pennsylvania.

“My husband and I both have read to her since she was a baby, but the books seemed kind of hollow and lacking. When you were done withthe story it seemed like a waste of time,” she continues.

Their solution to Emily’s fear was ingenious – Debra and little Emily worked together to pick up her room, getting rid of all the piles of clothes and toys that had caused Emily’s imagination to concoct so many fears. They found that this busy work not only helped Emily eliminate those scary heaps, but also cleaned the room beauti-fully and, at the same time tired the adorable child so that she then fell asleep easily.

The drawings in the book not only include the images of Emily and her teddy bear, for instance, but also illustrations of grown-up phrases like “Imagination running wild,” depicted in children’s terms (in this case, imagination shown as a lion running across and open field).

The whole concept of the book, plus the more than two years of patient work that Debra put into it, tell a great deal about the very unique Debra Harrison.

A self-taught artist, Debra entered one of her paintings in a contest at the suggestion of a friend. Though she didn’t win, the competition en-couraged her to do bigger and better things with her artwork. By that time, she and Emily were dealing with Emily’s fear of the dark, and Debra began writing verses about the situation. Emily loved them and kept asking for more.

Debra soon began creating illus-trations to accompany the verse, many of which feature renderings of Emily. She asked her daughter to comment on her drawings. “Emily would say, ‘I think it needs some

red over there,’ ” Debra recalls, smiling. “Children are who I’m trying to engage with this book, so if it was appealing to her I knew it was working.”

Reaction to the book has been very positive. One of Debra’s favorite tasks is visiting schools, reading and showing the story to kids and teachers. The teachers are thrilled, as well. “Response from the children has been amazing, she says. “I am overwhelmed when I get their letters and some tell me they want to become writers and illustrators because of my visit.”

So it’s onward and upward for Debra L. Harrison and Creatures in My Room. Not only is the book getting more and more attention, but Harrison has now expanded into another creative form – songwriting. Debra plans to have some of her poems set to music, working in col-laboration with Louisiana riverboat maestro, Captain Jocephus.

But in the meantime, Debra and Emily Grace Harrison will continue helping moms and kids worldwide with the message and magic of Creatures in My Room.

USA

48 Our USA Magazine

Ground Expectations By Liz Newman

Photo - Clara Natoli

“It must be so great to travel for business,” I mused to my husband a few weeks ago. “Flying seems so glamorous, so jet set.” Was I wrong!

Some of my most pleasant memories of childhood include flying. Back then, the airplane seemed so clean, the food really good. The 1970s was the era of the frozen dinner and miracle food in a can, and my childhood home kept up with the newest fads. The first sushi I ever had was on an airplane when I was thirteen years old; a futo maki roll made in some factory hidden away in the hills somewhere, but it was so good I’ve still retained a visual memory of the roll itself. And those reheated dinners in coach, yum! Those crunchy peas were the tastiest vegetables I’d ever had until I turned 18 and left home.

Yesterday, I left home at five in the morning on a marathon trip to pick up a new Siberian kitten at LAX. I was so excited about the journey, I woke up at 4:30 a.m. before my alarm clock rang – and was out the door. I was flying on an employee standby ticket since my dad is a retiree of United Airlines. When I checked in at the kiosk, the screen read “Are you in compliance with the employee dress code policy?” Dress code policy? I ride first class in sweatsuits, Mr. Roboto!

I was wearing jeans and open toed shoes, and memories of being a child, flying when there was an open seat for the employees’ rugrats, and shifting around wearing crunchy polyester, came flooding back. I told myself the airline em-ployees would let it slide, but one look at anyone who works in an airport and you pretty much have to accept that “Nothing slides around here.

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If we ain’t happy, you ain’t happy!” And believe you me, in the airport, nobody’s happy. Except the person walking back and forth in front of the gate, cackling away on his cell phone.

Off I went to a San Francisco airport’s clothing store, where a huge sign read “Up to 70% off select styles!” “Yes,” I whispered to myself. “Bargain time.” I picked out a pair of linen pants and tried them on. They were linen harem pants, the kind that MC Hammer made famous. “Hammer time,” I said to myself. The phrase brought far less enthusiasm than the antici-pation of getting a bargain on this ridiculous outfit. Resisting the urge to do the famous U Can’t Touch This footwork, I ripped the tags off and stuffed my feet into closed toed shoes a size too small. Even with the enormous discount, the horrific pants and shoes still came to over $150. What a rub. Five dollar pants are priced at $90 and “on sale” for $50 so you feel like you’re getting a bargain. Ha!

Undaunted, I boarded the plane without a hitch, and who gets assigned a seat next to me but an off-duty airline stewardess. So I got to hear all about the rules before anyone else did. She tapped a long nail on my shoulder. “Time to turn that laptop off,” she said with a big smile. “Put your bag all the way under the seat right there.” Insult to injury, she takes her shoes off and places her sweaty, stockinged feet so they’re touching my handbag. I realize that if I give in to my reptil-ian brain and throw an elbow into her pancreas, I could get booted off the plane and spend the rest of my day in a holding cell. I have a feeling she’s waiting for me to do just that. I knew of someone who was an airline steward who loved

to torment the customers in oh so subtle ways. While you’re enjoying your icy beverage, the attendants are huddled in the back, deciding who will do the next round of “crop dusting.” That’s when they walk down the aisle and leave silent, deadly methane in their wake.

The off-duty flight attendant sitting next to me was roped into a con-versation with a businessman who had just overdosed on Starbucks. He kept spouting phrases such as “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” and “This time I know it’s gonna happen.” Karma kicks in at just the right time once in a while (he said that, too). She nodded, “Uh-huh. It will. Uh-huh,” and then feigned sleep for the rest of the flight. He turned to a ditzy woman who was the belle of the ball about fifty years ago and started talking her ear off while I put my headphones on and silently laughed while watching the movie Crazy Heart.

Off the plane now, I had a new kitten in a carrier and was happy as can be. She was a gorgeous long- haired beauty, and I couldn’t wait to cuddle her in my arms, feed her fresh tuna, and show her around her new home. I jovially boarded the airplane headed back home, anticipating the moment when the children would return from school and meet the newest member of our family.

A loud hacking noise sounded from the front of the aircraft, and I looked up from dangling a furry mouse toy in front of the new kitten as her little paws poked through the cage. “Oh, no,” I thought, as I searched for an empty seat in another aisle. There were none to be found.

Sometimes you just know when someone’s gonna smell really, really bad. You meet enough people and you begin to lump them into certain archetypes. An oily sheened, stubbly business type, reminiscent of Willy Lomax from Death of a Salesman sat in the seat next to mine. I was right in the middle of him and a nice teenage girl who got one whiff of him and passed out. At first, I thought the cat might have come with a terrible case of Giardia, and then I realized there was a hor-rifying correlation between when the man next to me breathed and the terrible smell. The beverage cart came by, and of course he ordered whole milk, which brought his scent and my face to Level 10 on that pain chart they use in hospitals.

I flashed back to the TSA guy at LAX who asked a woman to step to the side and be screened and she gave him the lemon face, exclaim-ing at how inconvenient his request was. He looked so sad I tried to make him feel better by saying, “And I thought my job was tough. I’m a stay-at-home mom. Appre-ciation is few and far between.” He smiled sadly, and for once out of his day, hopefully he felt a millisecond of human connection. I suppose travel these days is simply a means to an end.

We love the kitten; she’s a joy to the entire family. And I got a good laugh and a better understanding of what my husband has to go through when he travels for business, so I suppose it’s a win win. So long as I don’t have to get on a plane again unless I’m headed for a tropical island.

USAScott Liddell

50 Our USA Magazine

The town of Leicester, NY was established within a few short years of the Big Tree Treaty of 1797 with the Seneca Indians whereby they relinquished their rights to the land. It didn’t take long for pioneers to flock to this region and begin clearing the forests for settlement. In 1821 Livingston County was formed and Leicester became a smaller town in size, sandwiched between the western border of the new county and the banks of the Genesee River.

With the river traffic and the crossroads that developed in the town, settlers migrated into the area from all points of the compass. The majority of them were travelers passing through Leicester’s conve-nient portal to the lands and lakes of the west. Leicester remained pri-marily an agricultural community, even after the construction of the Genesee Valley Canal in the 1820s bisected the town.

The industrial years following the Civil War brought about the demise of the antiquated canal system as it

tracks resulting in the inconve-nience of moving buildings and barns and destroying farm land. It is reported that one resident even offered the surveyors $2 to alter their roadbed away from his property. This annoyance was especially true when the line cut through the business portion of the town and threatened to bisect the treasured village park. Created as a New England style square when the village, known as Moscow then, was plotted in 1814, the park was the jeweled center piece of the community. Compromises were made and the final blueprint only cut a small corner from the Moscow village park, much to everyone’s relief.

Progress is inevitable, and by June 1881 the grading of the roadbed had reached Moscow. On August 4, 1882 the rails were laid into the village and the first train steamed in from the north. The event was quickly captured by a photographer, and the day was one of exuberant excite-ment for all. Four bands from neighboring towns performed, and

My HometownBy Tom Roffe

Leicester, NY Railroad Depot, 1915

was replaced by a significantly progressive method of transporta-tion that was both efficient and profitable: the train. New railroad operations crisscrossed the state. Originating in Pennsylvania, the Delaware, Western & Lackawanna Railroad was incorporated in 1832 principally to haul coal from the mines to available markets and by the 1880s was supplying central New York cities.

During this decade a major expan-sion of the line took place that car-ried the DL&W from Binghamton to Buffalo, providing access to the lucrative opportunities of the Great Lakes, Canada and all points to the west. In the early months of 1881, the railroad surveyors were at work tracing a route through Livingston County and causing concern for the residents of Leicester. Regardless of the potential benefits, not everyone wanted a train track slicing into their property.

Objections were raised when some noted residences were disturbed by being too close to the impending

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a huge feast was served to all by the ladies of the town. Needless to say,the workmen partook liberally of food and lager drinks. The local militia artillery piece was placed in the square and boomed forth on a regular basis. The crowds were reported to be fully one thousand people at this celebration.

By the end of August the freight trains were running on a regular schedule and passenger service began to increase. A brick store was initially used as the town depot until improvements could be made for a more comfortable and practical location. Business quickly picked up, too. In October the first carload of grain was sent from Moscow to New York City and the station accounted for $800 of earnings.

As reported by DL&W officials, Moscow became one of the liveli-est stations on the road. By May of 1883 receipts for just that month amounted to $40 in passenger tickets, $220 for freight received and $150 for freight forwarded. All types of farm produce were shipped from Moscow, including livestock and grains, which resulted in the building of numerous warehouses. By the turn of the century herds of horses were brought in from the west to be auctioned on Main Street, which became a highly anticipated annual event.

On June 17, 1900, a lazy, dry and hot Sunday afternoon, sparks from a passing freight train caught the roof of of a warehouse afire. Before

being contained, the entire business section of town became a pile of smoldering ash. In all, 26 stores, barns, homes and warehouses were destroyed, including the post office with the records of the town clerk, and the hotel. Many were left homeless, and the loss was estimated at $75,000–$100,000. The residents had no other options but to get busy and face the new and changing century with determination.

The DL&W also underwent major changes in this new era. Its reputa-tion grew as one of the most out-standing railroads in the country with the best equipment and efficiency of operations. Passenger service became a priority, espe-cially with the introduction of the famed “Phoebe Snow” luxury train and promotional campaign. Success brought considerable profits which the company president, W. Trues-dale, invested back into modern improvements along the line.

In the spring of 1915, DL&W offi-cials decided Leicester was entitled to an improved station in character with their modernization campaign. By the end of May, the 1815 con-verted home that had been used as a depot for 32 years had been demolished, and a work train of laborers and construction engineers from Scranton, PA were parked on a siding in town. Traveling back and forth along the DL&W line and bringing most of the materials with them this team built numerous stations along the way in a similar pattern.

When finished, Leicester could be proud of their Arts & Crafts styled brick depot with three interior sections for passengers, train master and ticket office, and a freight room with weigh scales. Added touches included arched window and oak doorways, heavy iron work, and decorative brick designs with a tiled roof. Final costs amounted to $8,713.

In 1917 the village of Moscow eliminated its identity in this form and became Leicester officially. One reason given was to be less confusing to the DL&W railroad operations.

First Train in Town, 1882

Town Fire of 1900 Disaster

5� Our USA Magazine

These years of prosperity were short lived, however, for improved highways, cars and trucks cut into railroad business and profits. When the depression era came, the sun was soon to set upon this golden age of American transporta-tion history. In June of 1932, the DL&W discontinued a full time agent at Leicester and began using the station on a limited basis. Most passenger traffic was routed to the neighboring town of Mt. Morris.

The increased activity of the years at war during the 1940s prolonged the suffering but by 1960 the DL&W ceased operations at Leicester and the station was sold at auction. Becoming privately owned the station became an antique store for a few years and then was purchased by Felix Valentino, a lifelong Leicester resident.

Felix was an excellent caretaker at a time when historic properties were severely unappreciated. Over the years he maintained the historical integrity of this classic example of railroad architecture. When approached in 2005 concerning listing the property in the National Register of Historic Places, he readily co-operated. Needless to say, it didn’t take a lot of effort or convincing to become officially listed as such.

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Envisioning a time when thebuilding would reopen with a historic railroad theme, Valentino gathered a collection of old lanterns. When the interior contents of another old Lackawanna depot were auctioned, he purchased the passenger waiting room benches.

Were he alive today, Felix would be delighted to see his railroad station has reopened after a loving interior restoration by his daughter and son-in-law, Joni and Vince Santucci. It is an artisan-oriented cafe, shop and gallery taking the convivial name ‘Gatherings at the Depot.’

The agent’s area, occupying the central part of the depot, is now a full expresso bar serving specialty coffees, teas, smoothies and delicious pastries, all locally purchased.

The one-time passenger waiting room is an atmospheric cafe now occupied by tables. A radiant gas fireplace lends a warm and cozy feel, as do the original dark-stained oak walls.

facebook.com/GatheringsattheDepot

The one-time freight room hosts a large cabinet of locally produced specialties, including a full line of Once Again Nut Butter Products, Hill & Hollow blueberry items Muddy Acres Honey from Cuyler-ville (produced by Joni’s beekeep-ing cousin Carmen Valentino), and Healthy Sisters mixes for soups and dips made and packaged under the auspices of the Rochester diocese Family Development Program.

There remains plenty of space on the freight side which the Santuccis hope to fill with more local products and crafters’ wares. —Howard W. Appell thelcn.comInterior Photos –Michael Johnson

Our USA Magazine 53

While organizing my closet recently, I found a box that con-tained hundreds of cards and letters written to me by family members and friends at various stages of my life. As I looked at their handwrit-ing and read their words, memories came flooding back at each instance they wrote about. Some might say that I’m too young to remember the nostalgic feeling of receiving handwritten letters since I am only 23 years old, but I’d like to believe that I am an old soul at heart.

In today’s society, everyone is so accustomed to email and online social networking, that the thought of actually picking up a pen and writing a personal message may seem foreign to some people. Although technology is an essential aspect of our world today, it’s some-times nice to sit down and express a particular emotion to someone in a handwritten letter.

This takes me back to third grade, when my best friend moved away to England. Yes, there was dial up internet and our parents set up email accounts for us, but we both looked past that and wrote each other every chance we could. Some of the best days I remember from elementary school, middle school and even high school was when I received a letter from my friend in the mail.

Our letters were rather lengthy, and we discussed every aspect of our lives and included dozens of pictures. Even through college and graduate school, we still managed to write letters to each other. As I look through the letters and pictures now, it’s funny to see how we have lived on different continents for over 15 years, but we are still so involved with each other’s lives simply through our letters.

This goes to show that although we are in a technology- driven society filled with text messages, video chat and countless other technological interactive methods, letter writing can still be a part of a person’s life. Until this day, I love when a postal employee comes to my house because you never know what kind of treasure you may find in the mail.

The Nostalgia of Handwritten Letters By Anita Haridat

Old Mailbox - Cheryl Rankin

USA

Tennessee Walker - Porter L. Versfelt lll

54 Our USA Magazine

Of Human Coots

and Avian

Grebes By Caroline Gorman

There are occasions when children have cause to worry about their parents’ sanity. My occasion came shortly after the New Year, when my mother’s behavior began to change, subtly at first, and then more and more dramatically. She began muttering about her New Year’s resolution and seeing a certain number of things. However, I didn’t understand what these things were until I saw her, clutch-ing binoculars and a book filled with glossy pictures, climb into the dented white mini-van and hurtle off into the horizon. She was in birding.

Up to that point, birds did not regis-ter on my radar. I did not at the timerealize how that would all change.One day, I noticed a list on the re-frigerator. Assuming it to be a gro-cery list, I strolled over and added some necessities: Cheez-its, Pop-Tarts, etc. I then retired to my room to browse over some homework....

My bedroom door flew open. There my mom stood, shaking the list at me.“Did you put Cheez-its on my birds-sighted list?”“On your what?”“The list of birds I’ve spotted. Look, I have thirty-seven since the New Year.”“Oh, you do. That’s nice.”“It is, isn’t it?” She shut the door behind her as she left.

Shortly thereafter, other grocery items began to appear on her list– chicken breast, turkey slices. Reading the list, either to herself or to a friend over wine, my mom would reach one of my insertions, look up and glare at me. From my perch at the kitchen counter, I would smile back in a patient, forgiving manner. I grasped how far the mania had advanced a few days later, the day she nearly killed me for the sake of

a sighting. She spoke of glimpsing birds in the same way that mediums speak of contacting the afterlife: as of something ephemeral, essen-tial, life-altering. All contact must be seized because the opportunity might not present itself again.

The opportunity presented itself as we were zipping out of our drive-way, late as usual, only to have our forward propulsion abruptly ended by Mom’s sudden application of the brakes. I righted myself and saw her twisted around in her seat, looking behind us, at something in the irrigation canal by the side of the road.

“Mom. What are you doing?”“I think he’s lonely. Look at the way he tilts his beak to the sky.” She sighed heavily and poked her head out the window. Through the side mirror, I saw that she was looking at a blue heron who was standing in the muck at the bottom

Photo Wendy French

Our USA Magazine 55

of the canal. I could see both her and the heron side by side through the mirror’s reflection, and both were craning their necks up as they scanned the skies.

I settled in for what I knew would be a long wait, though not patiently or gracefully. I sighed heavily. I grumbled. I shifted in my seat. She remained in a trance until the cre-scendo of honking rose to a point where it frightened away the heron. Long legs dangling below him, he clumsily took flight. My mother’s reverie interrupted, she put the car in gear and sailed on, sparing not a glance for the other yelling, gestur-ing drivers.

After that day, I was frequentlyregaled with accounts of the heron’s moods. I would ask my mom how her day was, and she would tell me about the heron. Today the heron’s beak pointed toward the mud a little too often – the heron was melancholy. The heron was in a better mood today because he held his bent leg higher. All interpreted based on minute variations in the angle of a bent leg or slanting beak. The heron’s feathers were looking a little dingy – a sure sign of herondepression.

Occasionally during these little family talks, my phone would ring. I would answer and leave the room.

“Oh, who was that?” My mother would say as I re-entered the kitchen. “Just the guidance counselor. My enlistment materials arrived from the Army today. I’m thinking about going into weapons development.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Did you know that herons differ from storks in that they fly with their necks retracted instead of outstretched?”

Or she would sort the mail while discussing birds, unquestioningly handing me envelopes marked with the names of universities that represented the focal point of all my hopes and dreams. The heron was not the only recipi-ent of her excessive attention.

The woman began to cock her head at the sound of any bird call and, mimicking the trill and warbles, proceed to name the bird. And then hop to the bird list, which was never far from hand, and check them off. She stalked them wherever they crossed her path, abandoning what she was doing to wander across lawns, over fences and through busy streets. Matters escalated over the next few months until I worried that some day the authorities would pull up in a large van and haul away our trilling wanderer.

I began to find newspaper and magazine clippings about a place called Bosque del Apache all over the house – taped to the microwave door, fluttering to the floor from the countertop, balanced on a stack of newly-acquired issues of Audubon magazine.

This Bosque del Apache was a bird refuge not far from our house. I suggested a day trip, hoping that this trip might end the birding escalation. My mother accepted with enthusiasm, pretending that she had not deliberately planted this idea in my head. I entreated my sister to join me, promising all sorts of fun times, but was declined. My sister cheerfully waved us good-bye, with a smile that implied I was getting the worse end of the deal. So my mother and I set out across the rolling land of New Mexico for fowl and feathers.

The place lay flat on its parcel of land, divided in half by the road. To the east of the road lay the Visitor’s Center, to the west the refuge itself. We entered the Visitor’s Center first. As Mom registered, I pecked around the Visitor’s Center.

It occurred to me that birders are almost more interesting to watch than the birds. These people devotePhoto Eugenia Beecher

56 Our USA Magazine

large portions of their time to stalk-ing feathery game, not to eat, but rather to photograph and check off lists. And the fact that there are thousands of such birders does not camouflage them as normal. They are still oddballs, lonely sky gazers in search of something on a check-list.

As I thought about the nature of birders, I saw an elderly couple, elbows pressed to ribs and hands held limply out, peering at a display. They bobbed their heads up and down to see through their bifocals. On the other side of the glass was a life-size ceramic heron, wings folded alongside. Small brown birds perched around the heron, artfully arranged on artificial rocks and trees, peered back at them through the glass. The birds stared. The people stared. The coots stared at one another.

Back in the car, before making the crossing into the refuge, Mom showed me the checklist of birds that she’d gotten inside. She flourished it at me, pen already in hand, in case one should surprise us in the parking lot. The point of the trip was those checkmarks – it was important to be ever-vigilant. I snatched the list of her grip whileshe scanned the skies. Buffleheads, grebes, oldsquaws, short-billed dowitchers, loggerhead shrikes, curve-billed thrashers, bobolinks, hooded thrashers – I burst into laughter. She glared at me and snatched the list back. I collapsed onto the dashboard in my mirth. I believe I even pounded it in an at-tempt to convey the hilarity to her.

We were searching for the sequel to Jabberwocky. My mother ruffled her feathers at me and was about to tell me off, when I straightened myself and pointed out the names to

her. She had the decency to smile, if perhaps it seemed forced, and without the glee that was warranted. We then crossed the street to the refuge.

The refuge, grey-green and placid, lay among the barrenness of the outside land, with mountains in the distance and irrigation ditches inside. It presented essentially a giant loop, crisscrossed by a few other trails and shortcuts for the intrepid birder. It was suggested to us that “unless you’re eager to dash off to the grain fields where the crane feed,” we should leisurely follow the giant loop by car through the park. This we did, turning onto a gravel driveway border by an irriga-tion canal which stretched off into both directions.

Like an aged white rhino, our van advanced amidst the shrubbery. Reeds grew at the edges of the marshes. Salt cedar grew in grey plumes along the ditches that con-nected the various marshes. Cot-tonwood trees and willows gathered in isolated stands. Red-winged blackbirds perched in saplings, like exotic, chattering fruit. Grain fields clamored at the borders of the refuge, pushing back the des-ert all around and feeding the vast flocks. Heather-colored mountains loomed in the distance. The sky was serenely cloudless, and the air austerely chilled in the manner of early spring.

As we entered, so did an egret. It flew parallel to our car, legs thrust out behind, eyebrows flattened, wings pinned to side as it went by, in flight like an arrow. This straight determined line of a bird streaked into the refuge. We pointed the van in and crossed the bridge. Silence pierced only by cries and hoots also accompanied us into the refuge.

Mom hauled out the birding book, flipping between upward glances until she matched the picture with the bird.

Immediately, our lumbering van disturbed a flock of barn swallows. Thousands took to the air, swoop-ing and flitting about our van. Orange and black feathers flashed in the sunlight as they turned upside down, sideways, rolled and dove. We drove on through, gleeful at their acrobatics. I was instructed to check barn swallow of the list.

“Wait, reverse, I saw one.” Engine whining, we would reverse the rhino to slide in behind a bush for a better view of the pond. We parked the van and emerged from it. From a nearby bush, a birder would ap-pear, unnoticed at first glance. Hair tufted by the wind and eyes mas-sively enlarged by binoculars, he or she would shake an arm at us, while not turning away from their view-ing, in the international symbol for “Keep it down.” Standing at the water’s edge, we watched two Canada geese sail past. The pair held their heads at a majestic angle, imperturbable in the security of each other’s presence. They glided out of our sight behind reeds, leaving behind a trail of double ripples, through which their reflections wavered and ran. My mom and I leaned far out over the water to see them as long as pos-sible before they disappeared, and

Our USA Magazine 57

our reflections showed two heads pointed together in a common fas-cination for nature. My mom and I walked back to the van arm in arm. Back in the van, other birders once again provided us with cause for laughter. We wrenched our attention from the geese in time to observe a strange sight. A small economy car, full of a young family, was tearing along the drive. It stopped at an observation deck, and the driver trotted out of the car and climbed the stairs. Raising his binoculars to his eyes, he quickly scanned the marsh. His brisk efficiency was broken as he sighted a hooded merganser. The binoculars stopped in their scanning, lingering over the arresting black and white bird. He gazed until a noise from the car caused him to sprint back to it and resume charging through the refuge. It seemed that there was only one birder in that car, and the others were somewhat eager to be on their way.

As we turned onto the straight-away, we came upon a traffic jam. Three cars were stopped at various places in the road. One had a door left open in the occupant’s haste to get out. A group was gathered at the edge of the road. A well-dressed middle-aged man left the group to approach us, and informed us in a jovial whisper that there was a bianchi pheasant up ahead. We eased the van to a halt on the side of the road and tiptoed forward. We joined the silent gaggle of bird-ers. Our heads pointed at the tall grasses, we waited. Suddenly, the pheasant emerged. It was stunning, with red around the eyes, a blue head, a white band around its throat, and mottled brown body. It strode forward, its long tail and upright head combining to give it an unassailable-looking U-shape.

As it passed by, a roadrunner darted from the same thicket into the one where the pheasant was headed. The accompaniment of the stately wanderer by the purposeful darter seemed oddly congruent, the one adding emphasis to the other. Soon both disappeared from view, and our gaggle collectively let loose a sigh of release. The gaggle dispersed and the two of us returned to our car.

We then passed a charming sight. A bird was seated on the bank of a ditch, facing the road. One leg was picked up and tucked up out of sight under its fluffy down feathers. Its face was buried in its fluffy chest, in complete and content isolation. It resembled nothing so much as a bird on a stick. We weren’t able to identify it, but by this time the check list had drifted to the floor of the car. It may have been an eared grebe, for all I know.

We rounded the last curve of the auto loop, and came to the Flight Deck. The Flight Deck was a cleverly named observation deck, moored out in the lake, and approachable by a walkway. We parked and walked out to it for a view of the entire marsh. Hundreds of ducks glided on the face of the lake, quacking to one another or dipping their heads underwater in search of food. At the far end of the lake, there was a sound, or a move-ment, indiscernible to those of us on the Flight Deck, but which caused the ducks to cease quacking.

They then rose up off the water’s surface in crescendo beginning at the far end, until all were in the air. The flapping of wings was the only sound as they ascended above the water, which was now churning under the taking-off motion of a thousand ducks. The sun’s lightfiltered down through the undu-lating wings as they rose upward beyond our petty check lists and im-posed names. They hung suspended above the green refuge, obscuring the mountains in the background, and hung there like exploded fire-crackers before dissipation.

The birders ascended with the birds, to pure suspension above names and lists. My mother and I turned away so as not to not see the descent, keeping the image ascent held tight inside. As we left, we walked over the boardwalk, and the water caught our reflection. My mother and I, silhouetted by the birds fanned out in the air above us and arm in arm, headed back to the dented white van to hurtle over the horizon to our own nest.

Bianchi PheasantPhoto - Rodney Campbell

USA

58 Our USA Magazine

Teen LovePhoto Montage by Shannon Hecht

Our USA Magazine 59

The year 2001 marked the inception of the “Do-It-Yourself” drive-in, which utilized contempo-rary tools such as LCD projectors and micro-radio transmitters. The first was the Liberation drive-in in Oakland, CA, which sought to reclaim under-utilized urban spaces such as vacant parking lots in the downtown area.

The following years have seen the rise of the “guerrilla drive-in” movement, in which groups of dedicated individuals orchestrate similar outdoor film and video screenings.

Faced with the closure of Hull’s drive-in in Lexington, VA in 1999, the non-profit group Hull’s Angels formed to raise funds, buy the property and operate the theater as a non-profit venture specializing in family-friendly films. Hull’s continues to be the nation’s only non-profit drive-in.

As of 2011, a figure of 371 drive-ins has been published for the United States, though it is unclear how many of these are traditional versus the new guerilla models.

Showings are often organized online, and participants meet at specified locations to watch films projected on bridge pillars or warehouses. The content featured at these screenings has frequently been independent or experimental films, cult movies, or otherwise alternative programming.

The best known guerilla drive-ins include the Santa Cruz Guerilla drive-in in Santa Cruz, CA, North Bay Mobile drive-in in Novato, CA, and MobMov in San Francisco, CA and Hollywood, CA. Information thanks to Wikipedia

creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Photos Shanon HechtLas Vegas West Wind Drive-In

Guerilla Drive-In

60 Our USA Magazine

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Do you have something you would like to see in print, an idea for a topic, or even your very own story that you would like to share? Then send it in!

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Send in your photos of our beloved “Stars and Stripes”

As a continuing theme for Our USA Magazine, we would like to display “Old Glory” on the cover of each issue. From the White House to your house to outer space, the flag of the United States is one of the nation’s most widely recognized symbols. Show your pride, and send in your photos!

Stand Tall If you have a story relating to any conflict that have affected your life, or the lives of your loved ones, please let us know. Share your stories.

If you know about a new and interesting website or business that you think many of your neighbors and friends would benefit from and enjoy, please drop us a line and let us know about it. It just may be spotlighted in the next Serendipity feature.

Resources:

Coming To The Promised LandThe Statue of Liberty-Ellis Island Foundation, Inc.17 Battery Place #210New York, NY 10004-3507212-561-4588www.ellisisland.org

An Eagle Named FreedomAt Bookstores NationwideWilliam MorrowAn Imprint of Harper Collins Publishers10 East 53rd StreetNew York New York 10022

Veterans History ProjectVeterans History ProjectLibrary of Congress101 Independence Ave. SEWashington DC 20540-4615202-707-4916www.loc.gov/vets

StoryCorps80 Hanson Place, 2nd FloorBrooklyn, NY 11217646-723-7020storycorps.org

L.C. King Manufacturing Co.P.O. Box 367Bristol, Tennessee 37621423.764.5188800.826.2510www.pointerbrand.com

Hanky Panky12th Floor373 Park Avenue SouthNew York, NY 100161.877.447.4811www.hankypanky.com

Tough Traveler1012 State StreetSchenectady, NY 123071-800-468-6844www.toughtraveler.com

Gatherings At The Depot10 South ParkwayLeicester, NY585-382-9000facebook.com/GatheringsattheDepot

The Pocket Flag ProjectPocket Flag ProjectPO Box 74087Arvada, CO 80006www.pocketflagproject.com

A unique community at the Jersey Shore - Ocean Grove and it historic “tent community” Photo - Jack Wagner

USA

6� Our USA Magazine

There is little doubt that the buy American movement is getting bigger. You see it everywhere you go, from television commercials to campaign trails, Facebook postings to evening news, and most every-where in between. Since buying American is a proven job creator, for millions of Americans who are hoping our country will finally turn the corner on this down economy, it is great news that the buy American movement is growing. Best of all: It might be about to blow up!

But what’s going to be the catalyst for this possible, yet realistically improbable, surge in buy American enthusiasm? Given all the econom-ic turmoil our country has experi-enced, what is going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back and makes this buy American move-ment go viral? The answer may lie in a small budget film project that began in rural West Virginia.

Filmmaker Josh Miller was motivated to take on this project after witnessing first-hand the devastating impact of an aluminum plant closure that hit his small town like a punch to the gut.

Josh, along with his producer Ron Newcomb and cameraman Justin Moe are on a mission: to expose what happened to their town, and to towns all across America, and teach the American people how to stop it by buying American.

True, it will be hard for such a small group of young men to make a lasting difference in our country, but remember this: never doubt that a small group of thoughtful citizens can change the world. Throughout the entirety of our history, from the sons of liberty, to the abolitionists, to civil rights leaders, fundamental change came first at a trickle, then exploded into a movement.

Check their progress at: www.usa30days.com

~ Randy Erwin www.buyamericachallenge.com

Of course American-made product is a very hot topic that people are extremely passionate about in light of today’s unemployment rate and economic status. CLC subtly reminds us that we may already hold the key to recovery when he sings, “I remember the day we were made in the USA...”

“‘Watching America Idle’ is not a politically biased song.” CLC says, “It is simply my observation of the working men and women in these troubling economic times. As a nation, we have got to find some middle ground in order to get the jobs back where they belong–in the hands of the American people. If we don’t find that middle ground then we are standing on foreign ground. Without the first word ‘US’ in USA, we will continue to fight and com-plain, and watch America Idle.”

There is no wonder that this admirable piece of art has gained national attention; every line is so unbelievably lyrically strong and right on the “money.” “I’m a working man, but I don’t have a job. I’m not begging for a handout, I ain’t looking to get robbed.” This is the powerful open-ing line for the song. From these words you know that CLC is definitely all about the music he creates and all about America.

Keep an eye on this powerful enter-tainer. He is Boat Trash Publishing and Sump Pump Records recording artist Curtis Lyn Cook and he likely has a chart topper in this election year with “Watching America Idle.”

To listen to this great song go to: http://bit.ly/IIz3HD

~ Joe Kentreverbnation.com/curtislyncook

Curtis Lynn Cook aka “CLC” found himself for the first time on a talk radio show, and was there to talk instead of sing; And talk he did; all about his new song “Watching America Idle.”

Right from the start of the interview on the Mark Reardon Show, it was apparent that there is no labeling this smooth voiced yet rough and tough outlaw; he definitely is his own kind of brand. However, that brand is no doubt “Made In The USA.”

Our USA Magazine 63

humble BeginningsThe genesis of The Pocket Flag Project in October 2001 was a time, post-September 11th, when American patriotism was profoundly embraced. LuWanda Ford, a Boy Scout Pack Leader in Arvada, Colorado was inspired after hearing veterans speak at an adult leader training day, about the signifi-cance of carrying a small American flag in their pockets during their tours of duty in Vietnam and the Persian Gulf wars.

In a desire to support our troops and involve her Scouts in a worthy project, Ms. Ford began what contin-ues to be a project of citizen pride and patriotism. “I wanted the Scouts to make a con-nection with people in uniform, and to know that these people who were going off to fight for us were from our community,” Ford said.

The goal of The Pocket Flag Project is to provide miniature flags to front line military personnel around the world. To date, well over 1.8 million flags have been prepared and sent by numerous volunteer groups from all across the United States. The miniature flags are pre-cisely folded into a 2 x 2 x 3-inch triangle, then tucked into individual packets with a note that reads: “A flag for your pocket so you can

always carry a little piece of home. We are praying for you and we are proud of you. Thank you for defending our country and our freedom.”

Since its humble beginnings ten years ago, The Pocket Flag Project has inspired many others to become involved. People from all walks of life are encouraged to participate, to let our troops know that they are remembered and appreciated. Along with Boy Scout and Girl Scout troop involvement, businesses and church organizations have requested information about the project, and have made much needed donations to help defray the costs.

The project became a non-profit organization with its own website where people can go to learn more about the project, instructions on the proper folding of the flags,

information on ordering flags, and a template for the note to be included with the flag.

The Pocket Flag Project is open to any individual or organization that would like to participate. Its mission is to stimulate patrio-tism and educate people about the flag, and of course, to get pocket flags into the pockets of as many front line military personnel as possible. Won’t you help this worthwhile cause?

pocketflagproject.com

“A flag for your pocket so you can

always carry a little piece of home. We are praying for you and we are proud of you. Thank you for

defending our country and our

freedom.”

Photo Jayel Aheram

USA

Photo by John Churchman Brickhouse Studios Images of Nature and Light www.brickhousestudios.com

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