Re-Invention

Okay.  I've done it. I've gone and got myself a personal trainer. Maybe it's too many sessions of the Biggest Loser, but I like to think that by the time this is over, I will have obtained my version of that quarter of a million dollar prize - health (and a really cute little black dress).

I was hoping for a brash Bob Harper or an irreverent Jillian Michaels or even a soul-searching Dolvett, but no matter what, I was expecting a 'get-in-my-face-kick-my-ass' kind of experience.

It's my third week, and I'm asking, "where is he?" No yelling, no in-my-face conversations, no teary failings. However, I have figured out that instead of the in-the-face business, he will 'scream' elsewhere - and that will include squats.

Squats standing still, squats gliding across the floor, squats leaning against a yoga ball; with bars, with weights, without bars and weights. After my training session last Monday Monday, I was powerless on Tuesday to walk, sit or even climb into bed. Tuesday screamed bio-freeze morning, afternoon, and midnight, too. For my next circuit on Wednesday, I hoped to be ready for another round of squats. I said yes, but in moderation. After all, the getting down is possible; the pulling back up is improbable.

Finally, it's week four, and yes, he's bringing back the squats. The muscles have loosened and I think I'll make it through the week just fine. Never count a Southern woman down when there's a little black dress waiting at the finish line! This 52-year old will defeat the squats!

From Plowboy to Soldier

Reprinted from the fall issue of Georgia Connector magazine.  www.georgiaconnector.com

His life began simply.

The son of sharecroppers, a plowboy who “didn’t know how to do anything but work on the farm,” he understood right from wrong early and when mama spoke, there was no “no diddly-daddling around”. He “got education” at Hinon Brown in Athens, leaving after his seventh grade term to raise cotton, pigs, or anything that would thrive on the family’s 300 acres. He learned early to tell the truth, always pay back debts, and if he worked real fast, he could pick 360 pounds of cotton in one day.

And then, in December of 1941, Pearl Harbor was attacked, the country was in mourning, and by June of 1944,  Private First Class Lloyd D. Carter of the 1^st Infantry Division - Big Red One,  found himself in the throes of a choppy English Harbor, on his way to an unknown destination.

Safe at home in Hull, Georgia, he remembers that first night aboard the USS United States and the voice of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. “He came over the PA system.” Carter’s voice wobbles, and he covers his face with both hands. “You ‘bout to make history . . . the eyes of the world are watchin’, he said, and then he wished us good luck.”Carter withdraws his hands and looks up. “I’m sorry,” he says, tears escaping his eyes.

Just as quickly as he chokes up, he recovers and returns to his account; most assuredly, a trained response.

With the weather deteriorating, the powers-that-be questioned the notable invasion. Finally, the forecast improved with a full moon scheduled for the sixth, providing a luminary for the amphibious landing.

“We hit the beach about sun up. The little boat carried one platoon, about 36 men. The whole A-Company was in one wave. When you hit the water, they’d crank it [rear of landing craft].”

Carter’s first glimpse of Normandy was daunting. “All you see is ships, about 600. Guns shooting four at a time over our head, shooting inland, pulverizing the beach. Airplanes were over our heads.

“They told us they were going to put us off on dry ground, but they couldn’t get there. Dumped us out in water up under our arms. We’d wade out in the water with all our stuff. It [supplies] was in life preservers and was waterproof. Bazooka guns were wrapped, so if you went down, the stuff would float to the beach and we’d still have equipment.”

Orders were to get off the boat quickly. The sooner they reached land, the sooner they would be safe.

Carter recalls “bullets hitting the sand, sweeping” as he ran inland. “Lot of people got hit when the thing fell, but I got off there.”

“I was probably pretty calm,” he remembers. “I was trained. You weren’t supposed to stop. You were moving so fast and concentrating where you were going. You’re heavy and loaded down. I had on wool clothes, and all that stuff in the bags. If it got wet, it wouldn’t work. You had to get across there.”

And finally, he “made it. The water turned red they said.”

Once he maneuvered inland 20 feet from the water’s edge, the barbed wire impeded forward movement. “There were men that were prepared to do it [tear it down]. There was a guy angled, laying there, his face shot off. I got behind him for protection. I wiggled in that gravel and was about half-buried. I reached in my pocket and got my knife to cut all that stuff loose, so I’d be free to use it.”

Moving forward, Carter decided he “was in the right spot. The commander (Pence) was in the gravel, urging men to ‘move it’. My platoon leader said, ‘Carter, I can’t count but six men, you and five more’.”

The count only continued to diminish as bullets exploded overhead, “snapping like paper”.

“I reached back for ammunition and pulled it up. ‘Bout the time I reached back, I rolled over and it saved my life.” A bullet blasted through his right arm, hitting him with such force that it threw him onto his back, knocking off his helmet.

Carter remembers his platoon leader’s comic relief. “He wasn’t supposed to do this, but he took my field jacket off and there was a bullet hole where I was shot. He said, ‘Carter, it ruined your field jacket’.”

To ease the pain, Carter downed the sulfur pills from his supply kit. “I laid there all day, wet and watched people come in. The 4^th Division came by me . . . walking on people, dead and wounded.”

By this point, the Allies had pushed the Germans inland. Soldiers couldn’t hear any riffles, only sounds of shells busting and hitting the beach.

The cold ran deep. “My teeth were just a rattling and I couldn’t stop them. I had been wet all day and the sun wouldn’t shine.” Carter recalls a man lying beside him with his ear shot off, “slap against his head. I said [to him], ‘if you’ll help me stand up, we’ll get out of here. They’re going to blast this thing off the map’.”

Together, they waded back across the swamp through booby traps and dead bodies. “It was like a turnip patch, step on one and it would blow you slap up.”

“We got to the beach and there was an A-Man [medic]. ‘We’ll have you a boat in a minute’ he said to us. He laid me down on the sand and gave me a morphine shot. He punched one right in there.”

A boat finally arrived with two sailors on board. The driver maneuvered and the other tended to Carter. “He took off his jacket. He put it over my face and spread a blanket over me. My teeth were still chattering. He sat down and started patting me. ‘Relax’, he said, ‘just relax and your teeth will quit chattering.’ He said that over and over again and before we got to the ship, they had done quit.”

Carter still feels the pats on his shoulder and hears the voice of encouragement from this stranger he would never see again.

He was transported back to the ship where they “cut my clothes off to see if I was hit anywhere else. They put my arm on a board and wrapped gauze around and put it in a sling. All I had in the world, about three thousand miles from home was a knife, a billfold and a New Testament. About midnight, I felt the ship raise the anchor, and we headed back to England.”

In England, Carter departed the ship wearing “worn out sailor clothes.” On his way out, he glanced toward the deck that was covered with bodies in mattress covers, laying row after row.

Placed on a military bus, he moved 30 miles inland. “I believe they could run over a matchstick and I would have felt it.”

The station hospital looked like big chicken houses back home in Georgia, and finally, thirty-six hours after storming Omaha beach, Carter was at rest and receiving medical attention. “They put me on a gurney and the nurse buckled me down. She asked, “Where you get that curly hair?” He giggles and says, “My mama give it to me.”

After the Pentothal shot, his countdown ended at 17. He remained under medical care though England, Scotland, Iceland, and New York until he finally arrived home.

Today, PFC Lloyd Carter speaks infrequently about his army days, but he never forgets. He proudly displays his burdensome wool uniform and his medals – a Silver Star, Purple Heart, Bronze Star, WWII Victory Medal and a Presidential Citation – and notes that he has no idea what happened to the men he served with for two years. He remembers his sixty-four-dollar monthly salary (including a $10 raise for being shot) and how the 16^th Division was a “good fighting outfit”.

He remembers the invasion of Sicily and being so scared that his gum stuck to his teeth and how he had to walk 120 paces a minute. He says that the Italians were “pretty good people” and they [soldiers] were the blood, and well, General Patton, he was the guts.

He tells of a medic from California who couldn’t read or write. Carter would write to the medic’s mother just like he would write to his, and when the medic would receive letters from his girlfriend, while reading, Carter would “gussy them up” just a bit. Another medic from Missouri would go into town and leave Carter in charge; “they’d come in with a headache and I’d give them an aspirin.”

He reminisces about his English girlfriend, Joan. He met her in Lyme Regis, how he “walked her home and met her mama”. He remembers walking in a pasture of blooming flowers and making her a ring out of a quarter. “I betcha if she’s still living, she’s still got it,” he remarks with assurance.

“The last time I seen her she was crying,” he recalls. The next morning, the plowboy turned soldier was in France.

At 89, Carter is an active member of the Hull Baptist Church in Hull, Georgia, walks four miles a day, dotes on his grandchildren and grows the best tomatoes in Madison County, Georgia.

Remembering September 11 - Ten Years Later

As a teacher, one of the best experiences of the school year, was traveling with my  journalism/yearbook students to Columbia University in New York for the annual scholastic conference in March. For one incredible week, everyone would be saturated with the most up-to-date trends in journalism plus be able to attend a Broadway show and inhale everything New York had to offer. We were the typical tourists, always looking up.

March 2002 Skyline

However, this time, a different view would paint the heavens.

It was March 2002, what seemed like only days since planes had crashed into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and Shanksville. The trip was questionable. Would it be safe in a post 9/11 world? After all, these travelers were merely teenagers. Looking back, I realize, that of all the years we traveled to New York, this would be the most important. Much like every year that had come before, students were excited about seeing the usual sites and attending the conference, but what consumed their thoughts was their visit to Ground Zero.

We all remembered that Tuesday morning in Room 3 watching the events unfold and crying and holding each other tighter than ever. My fourth period family rushed into my room after first period and never moved for the rest of the day. These students were journalists who wanted to know answers; they had been taught how to ask questions and find the story. But today, they were also children whose hearts were breaking. The world had changed and for a few kids from a small town in Georgia, they needed to see it first hand.

Just outside of Trinity Church

Suzy & Friend

I remember landing in New York. There were no Twin Towers to greet us. It was a different landscape. We made our way into Manhattan, checked in and our first stop, Ground Zero.

Even though it had been six months since the attack, evidence remained. I was amazed that dust still covered nearby windows and remnants of who-knows-what still hung in trees. Policemen and workers were everywhere. The students and I visited at night, and it was a hive of activity. My guys became working journalists that night; they talked to everyone, asking questions, saying 'thank you', and even giving hugs.

Subway Entrance

Memorials

There were plywood barriers separating the onlookers from that ominous hole, walls that had been confettied with signatures, photos and missing person flyers. All expressing love, respect and regret for what had happened. Photos of fathers, children, mothers - all the object of a search that would end in tragedy.

Standing at the Trinity Church adjacent to the site, I remember looking up into the trees. Debris still hung on the branches, and dust covered the trunks and limbs. Yet, the church stood tall; they said no windows were broken. Now, it was a refuge for rescue and recovery workers serving hot meals and providing rest.

I was also amazed at the silence, the over-powering 'something' that seemed to be walking beside me. It was definitely a sacred place. I tried to fathom what had happened, but I could not. No one talked; there really wasn't anything to be said. A few sniffles broke the silence.

Taking it all in

I love New York City, always have since my first visit. The energy on the streets moves through me. I know many reject the idea of the big city, but I embrace it and can't wait to return. It's more than Broadway plays, street vendors and Central Park. Now, in this Post 9/11 World, I try to recall that The City that Never Sleeps now lives as a symbol of what happens when every man is on the same page and moves forward with the strong will to overcome evil with good.

Times Square

September 11 has forever linked me to those kids that were in my classroom that day. Every year, we will all return to that same place, that same moment and remember. On this ten year anniversary, I watch the memorial service and cry; I listen to the actual morning broadcast and weep. Part of me can't fathom how anyone could do that. The other part wonders when the next attack will take place.

Times Square

Because of You

         It's an amazing August morning. The sun is shining and although it would be great to have some rain on my crunchy grass, I'll take the sunshine. A slight breeze blows through me as a sweep the front porch (so like my mother). There's even a stray dog there looking terribly hungry and lost; I quickly grab some bread from the kitchen and hope he takes the bait. He hides in the corner and an hour later, the bread is gone and so is he.

Veta and Len

Juette and Mari

       Today is one of those milestones for my husband that is calendared later in life. It was two years ago today that his mom,Veta, went home to Neil; and automatically, I think of my mom, three years ago December, who journeyed home. Days like today become a benchmark for children. A day that for some reason we judge all other days upon. A day when a part of one's heart that has always been within a stone's throw, leaves. That seems so odd, something so stable, someone so important is suddenly gone and life must continue.

       I remember when daddy died almost 25 years now, I watched as they closed the top of the casket, a movement very much like one of those slow-motion moments in a horror film - a sign that something ominous was behind the door or on the phone. One inch, then two. As the slick-haired, funeral type physically lowered the top, I felt my body following his direction.  I remember thinking how can life ever be the same. It did. The next day the sun rose and cars were actually seen on the highways, and life went on without daddy.

       The cycle of life continues, and it's okay. I will be okay. I have to keep telling myself that, that this is the way the good Lord intended it to be. What remains will be a testament to the life lived. But no matter the common sense thought, tears still fall and chairs remain empty.  

       That's when we gather up all the moments over the past fifty-or-so-years, hold them close and never forget. These will carry us through each day, beyond the shadows and away from the fears. Thank you mama, Veta and all the others that have left. I will be okay because of you.

A Barber Shop and an Air Compressor

Once every four or five weeks, my jersey-born husband drives his juiced up Trans Am into town and pulls over to the only barber shop within miles of our home. Right smack dab downtown, on the corner of School and Main. He walks in fuzzy and walks out coiffed to perfection. And that procedure includes an air compressor.

After hearty conversation of summer heat and the neighbors found on the police blotter, the cut is done and it all comes down to the 'blow'. She grabs the long blue hose and lets him have it, blowing microscopic pieces of hair from one end of the parlor to the other. People sit and read their papers, unshaken by the blast of air that inevitably whisks right by their ears. They pay it no never mind and wait for their turn in the chair.

The South is an amazing place. I forget that it runs through my veins, sometimes right up until the moment an air compressor becomes part of an unconventional salon experience. We're weird, I get it, but we're solid, too. We carry our traditions out the door and hope no one flinches when we shout our 'y'all' and 'ya hear' on a daily basis. Come to think of it, those words warm my heart, just like remembering the smell of country ham cooking and fluffy biscuits baking in my mama's kitchen.

I try to convince my husband that he is truly a Southerner now. After almost 20 years of being in the thick of our drawl, you can't help but become one of 'us'. Every now and then, he'll say my version of  'why' - always a multi-syllable word - and that confirms my suspicions. He'll try to deny it, but I know better.

Another reason I know for sure? I'll bet my life that his hair cuts will always include an air compressor.