Memorial Day

As I often do on Memorial Day, I like to draw your attention to a set of remarkable photos taken a few years ago by a reader (Katie) and her husband, who were formerly stationed in Germany. Katie learned that Don's uncle, Donald Sowers, who was killed in World War II, was buried in Ardennes American Cemetery in Liege, Belgium. She and her family visited the cemetery and sent these photos. (The entire collection can be seen here. Go look at them. They're remarkable.)

Later, a reader named Kathy left the following moving comment on that blog post I shared:

I searched for 2 years to find my mother's first husband Harold Norris, killed 4/4/44 @ 2:04 PM over Romania. I received a photo of his grave from Belgium and walked over to my mother's home and said, "Mom, where is Harold buried?" She said, "New Jersey". I said, "Mom, sit down, we need to talk."

Her mouth dropped open when she learned that her first husband was buried in Belgium! He has been there for (then) 65 years. All I started with was his purple heart, his name and service number. It has lead me down a path filled with new compassionate friends and a new understanding of the word sacrifice. Harold was an airman, navigator and top turret gunner. His plane the Miasis Dragon was shot down after delivering a fatal blow to an oil refinery in Bucharest Romania. The plane was hit at the waist by a land-to-air missile. The plane nose dipped, the pilot pulled it up, then it went nose-over-tail to the earth in a fireball. 4 crew were "carbonized" and were buried together in one grave by Romanian Monks. Later, in 1949, with dental records my mother provided, the US was able to locate his remains from the others and he was buried for the 9th and final time in Ardennes. The other 3 airmen are still together buried in the US.

One of the beautiful things I noticed was that each man's life is symbolized with a marble cross. They all worked and sacrificed as a group and from above, all of their individual crosses make up a larger cross. This collective larger cross can only be seen by people in airplanes and God. 3/5ths of the graves hold the remains from airmen who lost their lives....it is to those who fly that the larger cross is visible...a beautiful way to honor them.

The other thing I learned in 2010: the people of Belgium, France and other countries meet and honor our heroes. At Ardennes in 2010, there was approximately 100,000 people present, not many were from the USA. It seems that in life, we considered these men to belong to us, but in their death, the European people consider that these men belong to them, whom they thank and honor every year. Most graves have been adopted. Harold's grave was adopted many years ago and now the lady who adopted his grave is teaching her young grand daughter to care for it. She obviously does not want her grand daughter to forget the gratitude she has for the men who lost their lives saving hers.

I wrote to a man who was age 7 when the bombs were falling on to his town. He was scared and saw more than a 7-year-old should see. He remembers the American forces and he remembers liberation. For those who know what happened, who saw the cruelty and oppression, who had no hope, our US Military saved them, their children and their grand children. The maximum gift was given, freedom was restored at a great price, those receiving the gift are grateful....and other airmen and God can see their collective cross, a memorial for their sacrifice, from the air. This has put many things in perspective for me...I hope it will for you too. --Kathy

_______________________________

This is an essay Don wrote many years ago in tribute to his fallen uncle:

Forever Young

I don't know how he died, really. No one does, since everyone who was with him died at more or less the same time.

I'll bet he was afraid. I would have been.

It must have been hell on earth – above earth to be exact. A booming, banging, grinding, shaking, shattering horror. Especially it must have been tough on him, hanging as he was below the belly of a crippled plane, a bubble of glass exposed to the flak and the fire from enemy aircraft. A tasty and too-visible target.

His B-24 Liberator was powerful, true. But it was also lightly armored and easily damaged in combat. When damaged, the B-24 often lost the electrical power needed to rotate its gun turrets, and the gunners would have to hand-crank their turrets around, trying to follow the enemy planes.

Too slow. Too slow.

He was probably the youngest man on board. He was certainly the lowest-ranking member of the ten men who made up the crew. That first day of August in 1943, he'd only been in the Army Air Corp for a year and a half. He'd only been overseas for six months. He was 19 years old. He came from a farming family that lived in a very small town in Kansas. He had one sister, two brothers, and two very worried parents.

He was assigned to 98BG, a bomber group stationed out of Benghazi, Libya. His mission that day? In coordination with 178 bombers and 1,700 crew members, the 98BG was to attack and destroy the oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania. These facilities provided the Third Reich with one-third of its fuel … and the Nazis were very hungry for fuel in the waning days of 1943.

The oil refineries at Ploesti were protected with massive anti-aircraft batteries and hundreds of German and Romanian fighter planes. The distance traveled by the Allied bombers meant that no fighter protection could attend them. They were alone.

"Fire over Ploesti" by Roy Grinnell

It was a tremendous undertaking, a gamble of men and machines desperately needed for the war effort. A 2,400 mile, eighteen hour trip there and back again, with only a half-hour of available time over the target.

And in the end, for over 500 airmen and 52 bombers, there was no going home.

They say he's buried at a cemetery near Liege, Belgium. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. The records show that his B-24 was shot down over the refinery, but that it happened before the crew could disgorge the plane's 8000-pound payload of high explosives. And the B-24 Liberator was well known for burning merrily when it crashed.

But his name is on one of the white crosses standing in formation at the lovingly well-tended cemetery.

His parents back in Kansas received the medals that he was awarded posthumously at a ceremony, probably one of many such ceremonies on that same day. The medals were: a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Purple Heart, and the Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters.

Both his brothers eventually went to war as well. One went as another tail gunner, the other as a pilot. His younger sister stayed home, grieving for the older brother she would never see again on this side.

Eventually she married my father.

The parents, the brothers, and the sister passed away some time ago. There is now no one who can tell me anything more about Donald Phillip Sowers – Sargent, United States Army Air Corp. The uncle I never knew and whose name I share.

Donald Philip Sowers never woke to the face of his bride on the day after his wedding. He never paced the floor late at night singing softly to an infant daughter who just couldn't sleep. He never got to hold his child's hand the last time she needed, or wanted, help to cross a street. He never felt the aches and pains of a long life, well lived. And well loved.

But I will remember him and so will my children. If you've taken the time to read this, tip a glass in his name and remember him. And all the other lost brothers and sisters as well.

Think of the things he missed, for the things you have.

Donald Philip Sowers died fighting the greatest evil of our time – a young man of 19 who will never grow old.

_______________________________

A mighty "thank you" to our past and present veterans, whose sacrifices too many of us are willing to overlook, dismiss, or forget.

Baby fruit

After an explosive season of blossoms from plums, apples, and other fruit, we're well on our way toward a bumper crop this season.

I photographed two apple trees in our driveway when they were in full bloom. These pictures were taken on May 1.

The flowers were thick with pollinators – honeybees as well as wild bees, various types of flies, and who knows what else. All I know is we could stand under these trees and listen to the loud humming of all the various insects.

Can you see the honeybee (lower center) in this photo?

As a result of all this insect industry, the fruit is beginning to set. I went around a couple days ago and photographed some of the baby fruit we have so far.

I started with the four beds of strawberries in the garden.

These are ever-bearing varieties, not June-bearing, but the first wave of fruit will also ripen in June.

The two apple trees, whose blossoms were shown at the top of the post, are now busy producing fruit.

Lots and lots of baby apples.

We have a massive plum tree in our driveway. Last summer, I photographed it when it was heavy-laden with fruit.

It looks like this year, while perhaps not matching last year in terms of sheer volume, will still be highly productive.

Our older apple trees, the ones we had professionally pruned a few years ago, are also producing heavily. A few weeks ago, they had lots of blossoms.

Now they have lots of baby apples.

Of the four (different kinds of) peach trees we planted a few years ago, all are thriving, though two are significantly bigger than the others.

But all four are producing fruit, so much so that I may have to thin some out lest they get too heavy for the branches. Peaches are, hands down, my all-time favorite fruit, so it's gratifying to see a hearty crop.

The blueberries spent the last few weeks blossoming heavily.

After last year's bumper crop of 92.5 lbs., I'm braced to get even more this year.

The fruit-set is very heavy. Normally I start picking around the end of June, with the harvest lasting until very early September.

That's all the baby fruit we have around us at the moment. The other major fruit category around here – blackberries – won't flower until mid-summer and won't be ready to pick until last August or early September.

Seasons of bounty!

Baby robins

This is the time of year baby robins are everywhere, including our yard.

They're at that clumsy, adorable stage where they can fly – sorta – but can't quite feed themselves. As a result, the parent robins hop all over the yard hunting for worms, which they stuff into their twittering and insatiable offsprings' gullets.

Watching adult robins hunt for worms is fun. They hunt by sight, sound, and feel. The most classic pose is head cocked, aiming one eye and one ear toward the ground, then pouncing and pulling the worm from its hole.

A few days ago I watched an adult use this technique and then seized and tried to pull out a l-o-o-o-o-n-g worm. I'm talking five or six inches long. It tugged and tugged at the annelid until finally it snapped free. Then it was tasked with stuffing this enormous meal down the throat of one of its chicks. Let's just say it took the fledgling quite a while to gulp that monster down ... but gulp it it did.

Spring in the country.

An eventful week

We've had one of those weeks where things have happened, both big and small.

With Older Daughter now living in her new apartment, I decided it was time to deep-clean the refrigerator. She's the gourmet cook in the family, so when she left, she took all her sauces and specialty spices with her. As a result, the fridge is now comically empty.

In cleaning out the refrigerator's freezer, I came across a bunch of random cuts of beef taking up space. I ended up throwing them all in the slow cooker and turning it into "zesty orange beef." With just the two of us, we've been eating off this for days now.

By the way, Older Daughter stinkin' loves her new apartment. After a few days, Frumpkin (her cat) also settled in and has adopted one particular chair as his very own.

Older Daughter is so pleased with this apartment, in fact, that she hopes to stay there for the next four years, the duration of her schooling to become a nurse.

Last Saturday, our church had its annual deep-clean work party. Don's job was to build a child-proof gate and barrier across a dangerous four-foot drop to a tiny basement area where the church's heater is located. This drop-off is right off the fellowship hall, which is in constant use. Our church building is about 125 years old, so it has its quirks. Our pastor's son is now a bit over two years old, plus we have some other young kids, so this was an overdue safety concern.

(By the way, you might remember our pastor's love story – see here and here and here and here – and I'm pleased to announce they're expecting their second child in late October, another boy! Mr. and Mrs. Pastor have proven themselves to be excellent parents, and their first child has become something of a church mascot, much beloved by everyone.)

We spent the week arranging for a new (used) vehicle for Older Daughter. Her other car has a major transmission issue, which makes fixing it more expensive than it's worth, so she'll sell it either for parts or to someone who wants to repair and flip-sell it. Meanwhile, we asked our mechanic if he had any knowledge of an inexpensive-but-reliable vehicle available, and by golly he did. Having a mechanic you can trust is such a blessing! 

I've also been spending a lot of time in the garden, weeding out beds, layering them with compost, and planting seeds. We've had some crazy temperature swings (hey, spring) so I'm refraining from planting some of the more sensitive veggies until things stabilize.

We had a neighbor come up with his small track hoe to dig a trench behind the barn so we could lay in a drain to divert water from the barn door. Don lined the trench with weed cloth and laid down a perforated pipe, then covered it with gravel. This was a task we'd hoped to accomplish last fall, but the weather caught up with us before we had a chance to accomplish this step.

Older Daughter came in late last week to pick up her new (used) car and return ours, which she had been borrowing. We had a busy day helping her pack more of her things and fit them into her car, which has the advantage of having more room than her previous car.

This left one of her previous rooms empty. It needs some patching and trim, but above all it needs a paint job. (As a brief history, we had to move Older Daughter in rather hastily four years ago when her apartment lease ran out about the same time Don had some minor surgery, so cosmetic changes weren't high on our list.) The family from whom we purchased our house were absolutely lovely people, but their choice in paint colors was ... unique. I kid you not, the color is that bright.

Don started the prep work necessary to paint, which we hope to do this upcoming week. We'd like to get it finished in time to convert it into a guest bedroom, since Younger Daughter will be visiting in late June before moving west to start her new civilian job.

Meanwhile, through all of this, I finished up several magazine articles and sent them off, and began blasting through my next Love Inspired proposal which I hope to submit within a week or so.

And to top it off, we're having a new roof installed! This is something for which we've been saving for at least two years. We would have had it done last year, but we couldn't manage it financially after I was laid off from my online job in February 2025. It took us an extra year to save up for it.

Our current roof is asphalt shingles, and it was getting quite ragged. We were delighted to learn installing a metal roof was actually more economical than installing a new shingle roof. (We became huge fans of metal roofs after experiencing the benefits in our last home.) We chose a nice solid brown as a roof color.

The contractor is a young and highly respected Mennonite roofer whose work has high ratings. At the moment one-third of the roof is newly covered, but then work had to pause for some rainstorms. The rest of the roof should be completed next week.

We chose the roof color to complement the house color we chose for an upcoming paint job. Our current house color is a rather drab "greige."

This summer, Don and I will paint it a nice green. (The color chips shown below have a distinctly blue tinge to them, but I assure you they're green.)

We're also sorting through a lot of shelves, cupboards, and closets for items to sell at a yard sale we plan to hold this summer.

So yeah, that's been our week. Lots of stuff going on!

Greener grass

Last year, you might remember, we subdivided our larger pasture.

This allowed us to add additional rotations for cattle grazing. It also allowed us to have the garden fences down while we worked on strengthening and raising the fences against deer (the garden is carved out of a slice of the pasture), since the cows were restricted to the upper portion while we worked.

As a result of last year's garden-fencing efforts, we didn't release the cows into the larger pasture until late June. While the grazing was certainly great, it was past its peak.

This year we had no such restrictions. As a result, we opened the gate to the larger pasture last week, and let the cows into their little slice of bovine paradise.

We started by opening the gate (translation: peeling back some of the field fencing right at the corner of the garden) and giving our "Bossy bossy bossy!" call. Maggie was the first to investigate.

Romeo and Stormy soon followed. "Hey, look at all this grass!"

Maggie looks at the garden. "Hey, can I get in there?" No, you can't.

This time of year, the pasture is at its peak lushness.

Don has a theory about pasture quality. When cows are grouped together when grazing, it means the pasture is lush. When they're scattered apart, the quality is less. Right now, the cows are always grouped together.

A couple hours later, the cows were bedded down, chewing their cud, looking about as happy as cows can look.

Speaking of Maggie, our Jersey cow, she's looking more and more ponderous.

She was bred on September 8, so according to an online bovine gestational calculator, that means her due date is June 12, a month from now.

Unlike last year's unexpectedly early birth of Stormy, however, this time we're ready. We have the milking stall and calf pen built and all the quirks worked out. As her due date grows closer, we'll take the animals off the larger pasture and restrict them to the small pasture right below the house, so we can keep an eye on Maggie. Fresh milk soon!

"How is your father?"

I called my dad yesterday (Mother's Day). I can't talk to my mom anymore since she's in a nursing home, and so I called my dad instead.

As it turns out, he wasn't home when I called. That's because he was with two of my brothers and sisters-in-law, all of whom were visiting my mom, so that was nice to know. Dad called me back this morning and we caught up.

He told me that Mom hadn't seen one of my sisters-in-law ("V") in quite some time. The moment V. walked in, Mom said – clear enough that even Dad could hear it (Dad is quite deaf) – "Hello. How is your father?"

Dad was ecstatic.

V. is from Russia, and her father had suffered a stroke a few years ago. V. had to travel all the way to Moscow and then on to Siberia to care for him in the immediate aftermath. Mom's mind was sharp enough to remember V's struggles, and to ask V. how her father was doing.

Dad confirms that Mom's brain, underneath the symptoms of her own stroke and serious bout of pneumonia over the New Year, is still chugging along bright and alert. We agreed it must be intensely frustrating that she can't always communicate her thoughts.

Still, Dad admitted that Mom is receiving not just excellent care in her nursing home, but far more socialization than she would have gotten at home, so he's come to terms with it. I'm grateful he only lives a couple miles away from her facility.

The dying art of writing

Back when I was seven years old, I wrote a story about Glinda the Fish. I don't remember anything about it beyond a few vague watery adventures Glinda had. Certainly the story rambled, had no story arc, and lacked a conclusion, though I did include crayon illustrations of a very pretty and feminine fish decked out in glittery scales. Hey, I was seven.

Obviously the writing bug bit early, and I've enjoyed practicing the written word ever since.

Perhaps for this reason, the artificial-ness of writing done by artificial intelligence drives me nuts. I'm complained about this several times (here and here).

Oddly I'm conscious of times I use turns of phrase that might be misconstrued as written by AI. I submitted a magazine article recently, for example, concerning the honey hunters of Bangladesh (people who harvest wild honey in the coastal areas of that nation). In the second paragraph, I set the scene by describing what the mangrove forests are like, which included this line: "It is a moist, humid, and unforgiving ecosystem that straddles land and sea, and protects the coast from erosion during high tides, tsunamis, and cyclones."

It was the term "straddles land and sea" that I almost took out because it sounded like AI, even though it describes perfectly the placement of mangrove forests.

Similarly, one line from our recent trip to Italy also triggered my AI radar. In this blog post, I described some Roman ruins we saw, including the impressive brick work, as follows: "The fact that the brick work has held up so splendidly for thousands of years is a testimony to the skills of Roman craftsmen." It was that word "testimony" that tipped the line over into the realm of sounding artificial. It's bugged me ever since.

Every writer develops his own unique voice when mastering the craft, and I guess you could say the same applies to artificial intelligence. In a piece entitled "The Rise Of AI Writing And The Decline Of Human Voice," it states:

"New research suggests that widespread use of large language models is making language more uniform. A study conducted by University of Southern California found that after the release of ChatGPT, diversity in writing styles declined across several forms of communication, including scientific publications, local journalism, and social media posts. Researchers observed fewer differences in vocabulary choices and sentence patterns, pointing to a growing preference for polished, formulaic language. ...

"Researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development analyzed more than 740,000 hours of spoken and written material and found that certain words commonly associated with ChatGPT responses are appearing more frequently in everyday communication. Words like 'delve,' 'meticulous,' 'boast,' and 'comprehend' have become increasingly common, suggesting AI-generated language may be shaping human speech habits as well. ...

"Not everyone sees that as progress. Alex Mahadevan of the Poynter Institute for Media Studies argues that AI-generated content often feels empty despite being technically sound. He described it as noticeably 'soulless' and 'mediocre,' adding, 'There's no art in it.'"

Or, as I'm fond of stating, AI writing is a lot of "blah blah nothing."

At this moment in time, we are straddling (that word!) the cusp of human-generated writing and AI writing. But the handwriting is on the wall, and the latter will become the norm. Not only is it easier (give a command, and hey presto! your essay or advertising copy is written), but the younger generation will grow up unable to discern between the real and the fake ... especially since AI shows every indication of becoming indistinguishable from the human voice. Personally I find that very sad.

I don't know how long I'll be able to cling to a career as a writer, but I'll enjoy it while I can.

Happy birthday, Sir David Attenborough

The incomparable Sir David Attenborough turns 100 years old today!

Tributes are pouring in from all over the world, the world he saw so much of.

• Sir David Attenborough: A century of storytelling - BBC

• David Attenborough at 100: A Special Birthday Message From King Charles (this had a cute and unexpected twist)

• Inside the wild life of broadcasting legend Sir David Attenborough | 60 Minutes Australia

• Sir David Attenborough at 100: A Century of Wonder | 9 News Australia Documentary

...and on and on and on.

From all accounts, the man is a true gentleman on and off the screen.

Happy birthday, Sir David!