From Retired ORD Red Coat
extraordinaire Jeff Degner:
Hi Dave, et al
Can you forward this to all of your Delta cronies, devotees, acolytes, pals and hangers-on? I hope it will bring a smile to everyone.
Merry merry!
Jeff St. Nick
Christmas 2022
Flying south to Ecuador, I started this years' poem,
Several thousand miles from the place that I call home.
These annual rhymes are usually written in December,
But the words you're soon to read began in mid-November.
My travel mates all hailed from many different places,
Yet soon we’d be as one, amidst most anxious faces.
We came with aid for children, some desperate indeed,
And the gift we brought was medical: to them a vital need.
With pediatric treatments and surgeries done for free:
We were so blessed to do this, always happily.
For to give to those in need, not just at Christmastime,
On any day or night is an action most
sublime.
As I have gotten older, I've come to
realize:
Beyond the yuletide glow, in those
youngster's eyes,
Is the glow in people’s hearts who've
lived a little longer.
For charity brings a warmth ever
so much stronger.
A thoughtful gift that's shared
doesn't have to be a thing.
Not the latest toy, nor a gadget,
book, or ring.
It can be a gentle hug, or even just
a smile...
Or loving, heartfelt words, "I
am with you all the while."
November is now over, with its' trip
to Ecuador,
And with hearts content, we're back
at home once more.
I see the Delta airplanes, flashing
colors green and red,
I hear the carolers sing, while
smelling fresh-baked bread.
I feel the magic in the air, near a
beaming girl and boy,
But it's the sense of giving that
infuses me with joy.
So please accept this wish, replete
with hope from me:
Peace on earth! Good will towards all! A gift for '23.
Jeff Degner (deltajeff8@gmail.com)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Death
of a Pilot: A World War II Christmas Story
As a gift to The
Daily Independent readers, the Jesse Stuart Foundation is
pleased to share a story from “I’ll
Be Home for Christmas,” a collection of true stories from the Library of
Congress that celebrates the spirit of Christmas during World War II. This
story is entitled “Death of a Pilot.”
We
dreaded Christmas that year. It was 1944, and it seemed that the war would
never be over for our family.
Born in the
Midwest, my brother Bob rode horseback to school but wanted to fly an airplane
from the first day he saw one. By the time he was twenty-one we were living in
Seattle. When World War II broke out, Bob headed for the nearest recruitment
office. Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.
Undaunted,
he persuaded Mother to cook every fattening food she could think of. He ate
before meals, between meals, and after meals. Finally, he passed the weigh-in
with eight ounces to spare.
When
he was named Hot Pilot of primary training school and later involuntarily
joined the “Caterpillar Club” (engine failure causing the bailout) at St.
Mary’s California, we shook our heads and worried. Mother prayed. Bob was
born fearless, and she knew it. Before graduating, he applied for transfer to
Marine Air Corps at Pensacola, Florida. He trained on torpedo bombers
that were being sent into combat overseas.
Bob
died under enemy fire over New Guinea in the plane he wanted so desperately to
fly.
Mother’s
faith sustained her, but father aged before our eyes. He would listen politely
when the minister came to call, but we knew Daddy was bitter. He dragged
himself to work every day but lost interest in everything, including his
beloved Masonic club. He wanted a Masonic ring. At Mother’s insistence,
he’d started saving for the ring, but that ceased, too.
I
dreaded the approach of Christmas. My late brother had loved Christmas. His
surprises were legendary: a doll house made at school, a puppy hidden in a
mysterious place for our little brother, an expensive dress for Mother bought
with the very first money he ever earned. Everything had been a surprise.
What
would Christmas be without Bob? Not much. Family was coming, so we went through
the motions as much for his memory as anything, but our hearts weren’t in it.
On
December 23, an official looking package arrived. My father watched stone-faced
as Mother unpacked Bob’s dress blues. Silence hung heavy. As she
refolded
the uniform to put it away, a mother’s practicality resurfaced, and she went
through the pockets almost by rote.
In
a small inside pocket was a folded $50 bill with a tiny note in Bob’s familiar
handwriting: “For Dad’s Masonic ring.”
If
I live to be one hundred, I will never forget the look on my father’s face.
Some kind of transformation took place – a touch of wonder, a hint of joy, a
quiet serenity that was glorious to behold. Oh, the healing power of
love! He stood transfixed, staring at the note and the trimly folded bill in
his hand for what seemed an eternity, then walked to Bob’s picture hanging
prominently on the wall and solemnly saluted. “Merry Christmas, son,” he
murmured, and turned to welcome Christmas.
This
book and dozens of other Christmas books are available at the Jesse Stuart
Foundation Bookstore at 4440 13th Street
in Ashland or on this website. For more information, contact the JSF at 606.326.1667 or
email jsf@jsfbooks.com.
By
James M. Gifford
JSF
CEO & Senior Editor
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