In honor of Staff Sgt. Dale White, who passed away on September 2, 2007.
It seemed to be too beautiful of a day to have a funeral. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue that only comes with crisp fall days. There were only a few clouds; just wisps floating slowly across the sky. Since this was the beginning of September the leaves were just beginning to turn. The trees were still a beautiful dark green shot through with hints of yellow and red. We were in Lexington, Kentucky. The street was lined with the white fences that are always associated with horse farms. It is very easy to see how Kentucky had gotten the name “The Blue Grass State”. Horses and colts are in the fields, some are grazing and some are standing beside the fences almost as if they know where we are going.
The only discordant note to the beauty of the day was the protestors who lined Harrodsburg Road. Men, women, even small children were standing along side the road holding signs with sayings like “The only good soldier is a dead soldier”. There were other signs, but that is the one that stuck most in my mind.
The first thing you noticed turning into the parking at Kerr Brothers Funeral Home were the motorcycle riders standing at the entrance. There were at least one hundred of them; they were the Patriot riders, former military personnel who now ride motorcycles and show their support to families of fallen soldiers. They were all wearing bandanas of red, white, or blue. They were also outside to deter the protestors away from the funeral.
As you walked into the front doors of the funeral home, you are first hit with the overwhelming scent of flowers. Flowers were everywhere. There were large arrangements and small arrangements, both silk and fresh cut flowers. There were also plaques, with different quotes and bible verses on them, which I personally preferred. Then you walk into the chapel and at the back of the chapel there it is, the casket. It is not opened, because the military would not allow it to be. There is a flag draped over it. Two military guards stand at either end of the casket. They are standing at attention. When little children walked up to them, the guards still maintained their pose. To the right of the casket, a table is set. Medals are waiting to be given to the widow and the mother of the fallen hero. There are quite a few. There always is when someone is killed in action.
Before the funeral can begin, a military ceremony is held in which the medals awarded to the fallen hero are given to his family. This was a very solemn process. After the medals are handed to his wife and mother, his children, his brothers and sister are called up and all are given a Gold Star Lapel Button. This is a small lapel pin with a gold star on a purple background with small gold laurel leaves surrounding it.
After the medal presentation ceremony was over, it is time for the actual funeral to begin. They start by playing the hero’s favorite song. “Letters From Home” by John Michael Montgomery. The preacher says a few words, but we don’t really remember them. The hero’s youngest brother gets up and reads messages from most of his family. Some of the messages are sad, and some are written to remind everyone of what a fun loving person the hero was. The last song played was “There Ain’t No Grave”. I’m not sure who sang that song, but it was a great way to end a funeral.
It is now time for the trip to the cemetery. The hero is being buried in Camp Nelson National Cemetery in Nicholasville, KY. It was only about a seventeen mile trip that should have taken only twenty minutes or so, but instead the trip took almost an hour. Cars were lined up as far as you could see. People were standing all along the road holding up signs of support. Police cars and fire trucks are stopped at most intersections, with their drivers standing beside their vehicles saluting. Farmers in their fields were standing beside their tractors with their hats over their hearts. A grade school had all the students and faculty come outside and the children were holding up a huge sign saying “Thank You and God Bless You”. There was also a manufacturing company whose employees had gathered outside the plant holding signs of support. The family of the fallen soldier riding in the limousines behind the hearse couldn’t hold back the tears because of the overwhelming response of the community that had lined upon the route of the funeral procession to support their hero.
The procession turned into Camp Nelson National Cemetery. Small, white markers in perfect rolls lined the gardens of the cemetery. The procession came to a stop at the graveside of the hero. The soldiers slowly bring the flag draped casket out of the back of the hearse. “Amazing Grace” is played on the bagpipes. It had such a beautiful but lonesome sound to it. By the time the last note had played, there was not a person in attendance with a dry eye standing. Next came the twenty-one gun salute, a ceremony that typically takes place at funerals of active military personnel that have been killed in the line of duty. Every shot seemed to echo into our very hearts. Three military jets flew overhead to honor the hero. The folding of the flag was a beautiful ceremony. Every fold was carefully placed to make a perfect triangle. Three bullets are placed into the folds of the flag. The flag is then presented to the widow of the hero. Finally “Taps” is played. It is now over. They will lower the casket after the family has left.
SSG Delmar White was killed in action on September 2, 2007 by a roadside bomb, only thirteen days after arriving in Iraq. His funeral was held on September 11, 2007. SSG White was not only my hero, he was my brother.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Mommy's Grey Hair
In honor of Catherine Slusher White, who passed away on June 6, 2009. I love you Mommy.
I’m pretty sure that my brothers and I gave my grandmother all of her grey hair. The reason I say this is because she has told me so numerous times over the last forty one years.
The first time I distinctly remember her telling me this, I was ten years old. I had just fallen into the creek down the lane after trying to navigate the edge of the bridge with my bicycle. I had completely knocked the breath from my lungs. One of my brothers had run to get Mommy, our name for her since she raised us, and I came to myself to see her wading through the creek with a clear plastic bag over her head because she had been in the middle of coloring her hair. When she finally got to me and found that I had not broken anything she started yelling, “This is why I have to color my hair; you children are giving me grey hair.”
The next grey hairs were my brother’s fault. My youngest brother, Doug, use to love to stick “9-volt” batteries to his tongue. He loved that tingle that you got from the battery. One evening he decided that he could get a better tingle from the empty lamp socket. I swear, it knocked him about two feet away from the lamp. Of course, once again Mommy came running to the rescue, hollering for my papa to bring the car around. By the time she had picked Doug up from the floor and starting running towards the back of the house, he was screaming to the top of his lungs. When Papa realized that Doug was breathing and in no danger, he calmed Mommy down. Once again the line came out, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
The next time I remember giving Mommy grey hair was right after my twelfth birthday. I had been at School House Hill, which is where everyone hung out during the summer. The Catholic Church was having a neighborhood fair up there. Sister Teresa had asked me to run down to the bottom of the hill to the sister’s house and bring up some more 7-Up. I started down the hill in my usual helter-skelter way and of course, tripped going down. I picked myself up, brushed myself off and finished my errand. When I got back to the top of the hill and to Sister Teresa, she took one look at me and started screaming. I was covered in blood. I hadn’t even realized that I was hurt. When I had fallen, I must have thrown my hands out to catch myself. Apparently my right hand hit a piece of glass. I had opened a cut on my palm and wrist that was about three and a half inches long. One of the men at the fair was a doctor and grabbed a towel and bundled my hand up. I was put into a car and driven to my grandparents. Of course Mommy went right into panic mode, so my papa was the one who went to the hospital with me. Once we came home with twenty two brand new stitches, Mommy met us at the door with the now familiar line, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
My brother Dale was next in line in giving Mommy her grey hair. We use to have a wonderful, tall pine tree in the back yard. My brother’s and I had discovered that if you climbed to the top of the tree it would sway back and forth, which made it a really fun ride. On this day, Dale had climbed higher than any of us ever had. He really had the tree rocking. Unfortunately, the tree had had enough. After a loud snap, Dale and the top of the tree came crashing to the roof of the house. The top of the tree stayed on the roof, but Dale came rolling off and landed on the tank that held the oil for the furnace. Dale came away with a broken arm and a sore bottom from the switching that Mommy gave him. Of course, the whole time she was switching him, out came the famous line, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
The last grey hair incident that I recall, I was about sixteen years old. Some friends and I were out for Halloween. We had been saving eggs for months. We all snuck into the jungle, a wooded place than ran along the road. We ducked in behind some bushes and got our eggs ready. Here came our first car, and out came about six eggs. We threw as hard as we could and all six eggs hit the car. The driver slammed on his breaks and that was when we realized that we had thrown our eggs at Sherriff Bill Saylor. Everyone took off running through the jungle. Unfortunately, my clumsiness had not gotten better over the years, so down I went. Sherriff Saylor hauled me up by the seat of my pants and took me to his car. After having my ears blistered by him, he took me home and it was Mommy’s turn. Only Mommy didn’t blister my ears. She had another part of my anatomy to blister. The only thing you could hear above my crying was Mommy saying, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
There are so many more memories. My brothers and I laughingly refer to them as the “Grey Hair Memories”. We drag them out during family get togethers and share them with the next generation. The kids always love to hear these stories and always ask for more.
Twenty five years have passed since that last incident. Mommy now lives in a nursing home near me. I stop to see her every morning on my way to work. Some days she knows me and some days she doesn’t. Every once in a while, I will rub my hand across her now completely grey hair and whisper, “Thanks for the grey hair, Mommy”.
I’m pretty sure that my brothers and I gave my grandmother all of her grey hair. The reason I say this is because she has told me so numerous times over the last forty one years.
The first time I distinctly remember her telling me this, I was ten years old. I had just fallen into the creek down the lane after trying to navigate the edge of the bridge with my bicycle. I had completely knocked the breath from my lungs. One of my brothers had run to get Mommy, our name for her since she raised us, and I came to myself to see her wading through the creek with a clear plastic bag over her head because she had been in the middle of coloring her hair. When she finally got to me and found that I had not broken anything she started yelling, “This is why I have to color my hair; you children are giving me grey hair.”
The next grey hairs were my brother’s fault. My youngest brother, Doug, use to love to stick “9-volt” batteries to his tongue. He loved that tingle that you got from the battery. One evening he decided that he could get a better tingle from the empty lamp socket. I swear, it knocked him about two feet away from the lamp. Of course, once again Mommy came running to the rescue, hollering for my papa to bring the car around. By the time she had picked Doug up from the floor and starting running towards the back of the house, he was screaming to the top of his lungs. When Papa realized that Doug was breathing and in no danger, he calmed Mommy down. Once again the line came out, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
The next time I remember giving Mommy grey hair was right after my twelfth birthday. I had been at School House Hill, which is where everyone hung out during the summer. The Catholic Church was having a neighborhood fair up there. Sister Teresa had asked me to run down to the bottom of the hill to the sister’s house and bring up some more 7-Up. I started down the hill in my usual helter-skelter way and of course, tripped going down. I picked myself up, brushed myself off and finished my errand. When I got back to the top of the hill and to Sister Teresa, she took one look at me and started screaming. I was covered in blood. I hadn’t even realized that I was hurt. When I had fallen, I must have thrown my hands out to catch myself. Apparently my right hand hit a piece of glass. I had opened a cut on my palm and wrist that was about three and a half inches long. One of the men at the fair was a doctor and grabbed a towel and bundled my hand up. I was put into a car and driven to my grandparents. Of course Mommy went right into panic mode, so my papa was the one who went to the hospital with me. Once we came home with twenty two brand new stitches, Mommy met us at the door with the now familiar line, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
My brother Dale was next in line in giving Mommy her grey hair. We use to have a wonderful, tall pine tree in the back yard. My brother’s and I had discovered that if you climbed to the top of the tree it would sway back and forth, which made it a really fun ride. On this day, Dale had climbed higher than any of us ever had. He really had the tree rocking. Unfortunately, the tree had had enough. After a loud snap, Dale and the top of the tree came crashing to the roof of the house. The top of the tree stayed on the roof, but Dale came rolling off and landed on the tank that held the oil for the furnace. Dale came away with a broken arm and a sore bottom from the switching that Mommy gave him. Of course, the whole time she was switching him, out came the famous line, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
The last grey hair incident that I recall, I was about sixteen years old. Some friends and I were out for Halloween. We had been saving eggs for months. We all snuck into the jungle, a wooded place than ran along the road. We ducked in behind some bushes and got our eggs ready. Here came our first car, and out came about six eggs. We threw as hard as we could and all six eggs hit the car. The driver slammed on his breaks and that was when we realized that we had thrown our eggs at Sherriff Bill Saylor. Everyone took off running through the jungle. Unfortunately, my clumsiness had not gotten better over the years, so down I went. Sherriff Saylor hauled me up by the seat of my pants and took me to his car. After having my ears blistered by him, he took me home and it was Mommy’s turn. Only Mommy didn’t blister my ears. She had another part of my anatomy to blister. The only thing you could hear above my crying was Mommy saying, “You children are giving me grey hair.”
There are so many more memories. My brothers and I laughingly refer to them as the “Grey Hair Memories”. We drag them out during family get togethers and share them with the next generation. The kids always love to hear these stories and always ask for more.
Twenty five years have passed since that last incident. Mommy now lives in a nursing home near me. I stop to see her every morning on my way to work. Some days she knows me and some days she doesn’t. Every once in a while, I will rub my hand across her now completely grey hair and whisper, “Thanks for the grey hair, Mommy”.
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