Under My Boot-SOULS

John 5:25 (NIV) Very truly I tell you, a time is coming and has now come when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God and those who hear will live.

The morning started out with a song. "I can only imagine...," she sang, standing with Jesus in the Heavenly realms. How apropos for my sister Lauren and I, finishing up our breakfast in Springerville, Az. to hear these words.* Soon enough we'd head on out to St. Johns, Arizona, the birthplace of my grandfather. A visit to the cemetary where many of my mother's father's ancestors lay at rest, topped our agenda. 

  

St. Johns, a small ranching community in the White Mountains of Arizona sits unassuming and almost forgotten; a step back in time by at least 70 years. Stopping at the family history research center, we made our aquaintance to staff working their volunteer shift, quite excited to help us piece together a few unanswered questions and point us to the stories archived in their quaint library. The Greer Boys, known in the area as ranchers and cowboys, and more than likely, a few rabble rousers, came back through this part of Arizona returning to Utah after a stint in Texas, where they originally settled.  This place though, caught their attention and they stayed. Better suited to raise cattle then the cold climate of Utah, The Greer Ranch, sprawling, grazing land, was not without territorial issues. The Mexicans herded their sheep on these same fields and the town known then as San Juan, frequently experienced unpleasant words amongst these two rival clans staking out pastures. The famous gun battle of San Juan Day brings the two interested parties packing their pistols to protect their interests.  

Wild Celebration of San Juan's Day

There was a wild time in St. Johns on the day of the Mexican population's patron saint, San Juan, June 24, 1882, when Nat Greer and a band of Texas cowboys entered the Mexican town. The Greers had been unpopular with the Mexicans since they had marked a Mexican with an ear "underslope," as cattle are marked, this after a charge that their victim had been found in the act of stealing a Greer colt. The fight that followed the Greer entry had nothing at its initiation to do with the Mormon settlers. Assaulted by the Mexican police and populace, eight of the band rode away and four were penned into an uncompleted adobe house. Jim Vaughn of the raiders was killed and Harris Greer was wounded. On the attacking side was wounded Francisco Tafolla, whose son in later years was killed while serving in the Arizona Rangers. It was declared that several thousand shots had been fired, but there was a lull, in which the part of peacemaker was taken up by "Father" Nathan C. Tenney, a pioneer of Woodruff and father of Ammon M. Tenney. He walked to the house and induced the Greers to surrender. The Sheriff, E.S. Stover, was summoned and was in the act of taking the men to jail when a shot was fired from a loft of the Barth house, where a number of Mexicans had established themselves. The bullet, possibly intended for a Greer, passed through the patriarch's head and neck, killing him instantly. The Greers were threatened with lynching, but were saved by the sheriff's determination. Their case was taken to Prescott and they escaped with light punishment. http://www.logoi.com/notes/mormon-arizona/little-colorado-settlements.html

(L to R) Joe Woods (cowboy/hired hand) William Nathaniel "Nat" Greer and Frank P. Drew (cowboy & hired hand - he married Deseret Dianah Greer, sister to Nat and Thos Lacy)

                                                                          +++

My Grandma Greer wrote limericks. Let me share one of my favorites.

Here comes Cowboy Vaughn

Just rode in from St. Johns.

He is one of those Greers,

Still wet behind the ears.

But always up before dawn.

My Grandparents, 1920 

What did "wet behind the ears mean?" I didn't know, but I giggled at my sweet grandma spouting her rhymes about Grandpa. Vaughn Harris Greer eventually rode into Alburqurque where he met my Grandma, never to return to the red dirt trails of the Southwest.  

Did I know my Grandpa came from real cowboy roots?  

He fixed people's watches and put diamonds in rings. He always wore a suit. He didn't look like John Wayne or the Lone Ranger to me. 

                                               +++

The dark, black clouds gathered against the mountains. Warm, in the high 80's, we back-tracked on small country roads outside town, past beaten down farm houses and barns missing most of their roofs, past car graveyards and forever-rest stops of farm equipment, out to a bluff over looking the desert-valley floor.  The wind met us there, while the lightning cracked and the thunder bellowed in the backdrop of pinks and grays, reds and gray-greens. Our family name carved repeatedly, with dates in the 1800's, marked a time gone by.  Yes, "A dark and stormy night," no one for miles in this sleepy town all ready tucked in for the day at 4:00 in the afternoon; My sister and I stepped out to visit the dead. 

So, I thought I'd embellish this blog by authoring my own "family" limericks.  

Here lies James H. Vaughn

Murdered in the town of St. Johns

Friends with the Greers 

Which ended his career. 

Now pink rocks, no lawn.

+++

Thomas Lacy Greer

Here lies our Great Great Pa

Thomas Lacy's grave we saw.

Georgia roots
Arizona boots

When the West was still quiet raw.

+++

"The first tme I saw Mr. Greer, he was wearing a large white beaver hat. I knew he was a Texan, but I didn't like the hat. We soon got aquainted. He asked me if I would go to church with him. I said, "yes." We did not stay apart much after that. On the 25th of Nov. 1855 we were married in my father's house by Judge Sprouce, a Justice of the Peace. I was 18 years old the 17th of Oct., 1855 and he was 30 the 2nd of Sept., 1855. We had $50,000 when we were married. We had a merry time that winter. Mr Greer didn't have to take care of the cattle that winter. He was bookkeepper at the store and I went to dancing school."   --A page from Ellen Camp Greer's history.  

Catherine Ellen Camp Greer, 

Pioneer woman, sincere

 She crossed the plains

Gave thirteen children names,

Held in high esteem, revered

The original, very large picture of my great great grandmother Catherine,  hung in my grandfather's house for as long as I remember.

This picture taken at the World's Fair, San Francisco, 1915.  My great great grandmother,  Catherine is 2nd from the right, bottom row, and two of her daughters, Oasis and Ellen are on the ends, same row.

Lacy Greer

Great Grandpa Greer fell dead

When the cattle stampeded ahead.

The corral crashed down

Lacy was found

"The railroad at fault," was said.

Uncles and cousins at rest

Greer Cowboys, a very good guess.

Tombstones don't tell

Of a life lived well?

What of their dreams and quests?

 Gilbert Dunlap Greer & Hyram "Hi" Hatch (cowboy and ranch hand).

An Arizona cattle drive 

The "Greer Ranch" today.

+++

All goes onward and outward, nothing collaspes, 

And to die is different from what any one supposed, 

luckier.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains

of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me, 

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the

shadow'd wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another

I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

Excerpt from "Song of Myself," Walt Whitman, Great American Poet. 

+++

Credit:  I like to thank my sister, Lauren for taking me with her on this once-in-a-lifetime Sister Trip,  providing the "color" and history of all the genealogical research she's done so excellently and for her passion for history which she finally (to her joy) has ignited in me.  

I'd also like to thank Vem Sherman, English teacher extrordinaire,  who, when inquiring about a poem I wanted to add on this yet uncompleted blog, she immediately shared this Walt Whitman piece, which not only fits perfect but brings tears to my eyes as I read it.  

*see companion devotional: http://happy10toes.blogspot.com/2012/08/purposefully-listening.html

Trick or Treat

 Trick or Treat, or Halloween, as the calendar so names it, arrives.  As a kid, I remember this night well.  Adorned in clever costumes, hand-stitched and/or constructed by my parents, school fun, and safe neighborhood walk-abouts, I looked forward to this night. The candy stayed in a bowl on top of the fridge and only with permission could my sister and I dip into it after dinner.  I always loved the Hershey Bars—the big ones, the best. 

As a Girl Scout Leader, my mother planned a spectacular party in our garage for our troop one year.  Hay bales lined the floor, spooky music played on a portable record player while dry ice fogged up the gathering.  My mother read a scary story as we passed around props under a blanket on our laps.  Giggly 11 -year old girls touching and passing “peeled grape eye-balls” and “cold sticky spaghetti brains” of a mad scientist’s experiment gone bad creeps back into my memory. 

Movies like “Psycho” and “Wait Until Dark” with Audrey Hepburn, bring back  more memories of a time in celluloid when your imagination scared you more than the images you did not see on the screen.  Jumping high and screaming loud left you cracking up in embarrassment but wondering if your heartbeat would ever be normal again. 

In high school, I belonged to a well-known Christian organization called Youth for Christ/Campus Life.  ”The Haunted House” secured funds to run clubs on many high school campuses and support staff for many months. We located an actual abandoned building or house and with city permission, transformed it into a maze of rooms of gore with strobe lights and monsters of the night scaring the “you know what” out of every brave soul who dared to wander down the dark halls anticipating what each new room might reveal, if they could even see around any corner.  Joining the staff myself in college, this event gained me the notoriety as “Monster of the Year,” at our staff after party.  Playing a witch in a graveyard, I welcomed you to my “garden” of  past visitors who somehow didn't quiet make it home.st visitors who somehow didn’t quite make it home. 

Eventually, the Haunted House became controversial among some supporters of YFC and alternative methods of fundraising became apparent. I can tell you that those days remain as great memories of hard-working young people “performing” on a 6-night a week, three week project, impacting many surrounding cities and its youth.  A very rewarding time in my life, the Haunted House brought many people to the Campus Life clubs where they heard about a God who is personal and wanted to come into their hearts to calm their fears and give them eternal life. 

As a parent, again, Halloween became an opportunity for creativity and family-fun. Active in my children’s classrooms, I took treats, sharing with other mothers and visited the neighbor’s homes for compliments and pictures of the kids in their costumes while candy plopped in their open bags. Quickly, we hopped in the car to trek over to the small campus of our little church, Chino Valley Community and “Harvest Night.”  Oh what fun pitching the baseball to “dunk” our youth pastor while eating chili dogs and popcorn as the children and adults in costumes as well, played the “carnival games” over and over for the handful of candy. 

This month, we begin a Season of Celebration among friends. Do we include a holiday that promotes blood and guts, screaming and terror, sugar surges and smashed pumpkins?  What can we celebrate?  Let’s not focus on the negative stuff, but let’s celebrate a candle inside a pumpkin as the light of Jesus inside our hearts. Let’s celebrate His sweet loved wrapped just for us in a candy kiss.  The Lord helps us to remove our “masks” of pride and secrecy, becoming transparent as a ghost.  He heals our scars by his precious blood and gives us a firm foundation that our bones can stand strong on.  Take the opportunity to get to know your neighbors by sharing some apple cider or homemade caramel corn, (three colors in one –bite!). God gives us reason to celebrate everyday as we put forth the empty pillowcases of our lives and he fills it with His goodness, even a day the devil wants to claim as his. As Christ followers, let your light shine in the darkness of hearts. Oh what a day to meet the Savior ringing the doorbell of your heart! 

Revelation 3:20 (NIV)

²⁰ Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.

"Man the Victory Fleet" A Response of a WWII Merchant Marine Hero.

I received an interesting reply from my previous posting, "A Day in the Life of a Merchant Marine."  Apparently, my tag sent a flag to Google Alerts and  another fellow Merchant Marine who also served in the precarious seas during WWII, opened up my blog and took the time to send me a nice comment. With his permission, I am re-posting his letter to me here:  

Since I was a Merchant Mariner during WW2, I subscribe to Google 
Alerts-US Merchant Marine. Today it referenced your story about your 
father"s experience during the sinking of his ship.
I also served as a fireman-water-tender on the SS Pan Georgia during 
WW2. It is unfortunate that so many veterans did not discuss their 
experiences during WW2. The fireman-water-tender position was the most 
demanding in the engine room. The crew. on a merchant ship engine room 
four hour watch, consisted only of an engineer, a fireman-water-tender 
and an oiler. The fireman was responsible for the operation of two 
boilers. He worked in an environment that was at least 100F, on 
slippery oily deck plates and air polluted with low grade fuel oil 
fumes. As required by the speed of the ship, he adjusted the fuel-oil 
flow rate, controlled the water level in the boiler and air flow-rate 
to the boiler furnace box. He also cleaned the burner nozzles at least 
once a watch. The job was especially difficult when the ship was 
maneuvering and steam demands to the turbine varied rapidly
Your description of his escape from the engine-room was good but not 
accurate. There were no stairs. There was a relatively steep ladder 
which was difficult to climb under the best conditions. With the ship 
listing and others trying to escape it could be a very hazardous climb.
It is a shame that your father didn't give you first hand information 
on the escape and experience on the life boat.
Hope I was helpful,
Walter Schwartz

Use to the same followers who comment regularly either here or on Facebook, my excitement level ramped up when this came across my inbox. As a blogger, its good to know my attempt at writing into cyberspace really works! Then it dawned on me...how old is this gentleman and how "techy" is he to be using the internet and following blogs?  Wow...so cool!  

My sister (the genealogy expert) researched my father's time in the service several years ago. I quickly called her, sharing my response and asked her to pull her research, as wanting to respond with more info to Mr. Schwartz.  Finding  almost all of our father's service record and ships, there remains  a significant gap in time,which puzzles us. It's right smack-dab in the middle of the war. We're speculating this might just be the time my dad's ship sank and his rescue and recovery took place.  That actual event was verified by my dad's sister and brother, who also never discussed it in front of my mother or any family gathering.  My uncle told my Sis that among other "cargo" transported on his ship, gold from Saudi Arabia, possibly to protect it from enemy hands or who knows, found its way on one of his ships. (Where were they taking it?)  We know my dad spent a lot of time in Middle East ports as well as the South Pacific Theater.  Occasionally, while watching travel or National Geographic shows with my dad, (which we did a lot),  he would mention strange lands he had been to, like New Guinea and Ceylon.   (I wonder now what memories, what adventures, took place there?). 

My dad is the hunky guy on the right in the white T-shirt. 

After e-mailing Mr.Schwartz back, he kindly reciprocated again and shared with me a detailed diary of his service record.  Here is a portion detailing his job and one particular rough voyage. 

October 2, Boston to LeHavre to New York on the Liberty Ship SS Kemp P.Battle. The return from Lehavre to New York on the SS Kemp Battle was probably weather wise the worst experience of my short career. five hundred of General Patton's troops were brought aboard for return to the States. Although we were scheduled to sail the next morning, all ships were suddenly ordered out of LeHavre. My rating suddenly changed from maintenance engineer to oiler. The storm was so intense that we were driven fifty miles northwest of the English Channel. A number of ships ran aground. Since we were not carrying cargo or ballast, the ship rode high, was unstable and difficult to maneuver. To provide ballast, the two aft cargo holds were partially filled with sea water as a ballast to improve the maneuverability. Since the sloshing of the water in the holds caused an unusual and unstable rocking sensation, the holds were pumped dry. Because the large reciprocating engines of the liberty ships were manually oiled, the oiler's job was especially demanding under normal conditions. The oiling can would have to be raised and lowered in synchronization with the movement of the cranks or the can would be locked out of the oiler's hand. With the ship gyrating so wildly, oiling was especially demanding. 

Under the storm condition, when the ship went into a trough, the propeller would be uncovered. With no water resistance, the engine would accelerate rapidly. Between oiling, the oiler would alternate with the engineer on watch to operate a large butterfly valve to reduce steam to the engine when the prop came out of the water. A normal ten-day trip across the Atlantic took us thirty hectic days.

For more info check out these sites: http://www.dvrbs.com/monuments/camden/Camden%2cNJ-WW2-merchant-marine-memorial.htm

http://www.usmm.org/engine.html

Very much of interest to me, I now imagined more what my dad's actual job entailed, for he worked as an oiler and a fireman as well,  in the "engine room" of his Merchant Marine vessels. 

So, I asked Mr. Schwartz for his picture.  He told me I could get it from his Facebook page! I just have to share this with you all. Love this!  Looks great for 89, wouldn't you say? 

Work and Education




College








NYU

Civil Engineering · New York, New York



















Philosophy




Favorite Quotation
You are never too old!


















Basic Information




About Walter
I'm 89 year young and I feel like I am 39 at the very oldest. My body has been telling me different, so we are arguing with each other. I'll let you know who wins the argument.

So, thank you Mr.Walter Schwartz, for your candid biography and information sharing across the WWW!  More importantly, I thank you for your service to our country and keeping your memories alive by documenting and sharing.  Have a great 4th of July and God Bless you, 

Coleene VanTilburg 

A Day in a Life of a Merchant Marine- A Father's Day Tribute

My father, Lynwood "Lindy" M. Markham served as a Merchant Marine during WWII. On one tour, his ship was torpedoed and sunk in the Indian Ocean and my dad survived 5 days in a lifeboat  before being rescued.  My mother and sister and I only found this out from a fellow serviceman who attended my father's memorial service years later, telling us the story. Never ever sharing this tragedy with us, he kept this secret from even those he held dear.

 I wrote this story a few years back while thinking of my dad.  Though fictional, it's based on what happened to many merchant marines serving in the dangerous waters during WWII.  Merchant Marine ships took a very heavy toll, and recognition as true military finally came to light by  President Clinton in 1998. For further info please check out these sites. 
http://www.usmm.org/recognitionsought.html

                                           http://www.usmm.org/ww2.html

Letter of recognition signed by Pres.Bill Clinton  

Medals of service

THROUGH THE VALLEY

The pencil stub marks an x across yesterday in my Seaman log calendar page. Six weeks now I've kept these engines fired up.  Into this night by 5 hours now.  It is a brutal job, but I am hoping to see the world, even if it is during wartime.  The engine room is nothing but noise and even with my earplugs; I can barely hear the thoughts in my own head.

 

Lord, keep those German U-boats at a distance. Haven't seen any escort ships out there lately,  but stuck down here, I don't see much. Our mission is to get these supplies over to China via the "Burma Road", aiding our troops and allies as the fight for freedom, for human dignity battles on.  

I know I am not an "official" soldier, as a  Merchant Marine, but that is OK, I still feel like one and I know I am helping to do my part.  Next week, July 11th, 1944, will be my 24th birthday. We'll be sailing into port by then, and I can get a message home. 

Suddenly, above the noise of the ship's engine, a powerful explosion and vibration knocks me at least ten feet on my backside against the steam pipes. My skin sizzles and melts as the pipe burns through my uniform and skin. Losing control, I feel the ship and my body listing to the port side. I feel blood coming from my ear but I hear nothing else but very faint screams and alarms

 I gather myself up off the floor (or is it the floor?) and make my way up some stairs against gravity, climbing on my belly and pulling myself up the handrails with what upper body strength I can muster. The terror and fear sets in; an enemy torpedo probably hit my ship. Seawater is now dripping around me and the salt stings every inch of my burned and bruised skin. The feeling is gone now from the backside of me, but I can smell my burnt flesh. The crisp uniform I dressed in this morning is all but disintegrated. Can I make it to topside? Will there be anybody to help me? Will we sink before I....  My head feels like a pressure gauge ready to explode. 

Then, once again, that vibration and sound shocks and reverberates through my body; another hit.

“God, I must be brave.  Help us Lord!  Be with us God!"

Dawn lies in wait maybe an hour or so, but there are fires that light the deck.  Massive caves puncture the once smooth surface of the deck. I crawl on my belly towards some shipmates and squint into the shadows of fire, trying to maintain consciousness. Someone is lifting a  lifeboat and I am seeing him move his mouth, but my only sense that remains half functioning is the smell of death and fire. I look to the sea that calls me to surrender but I fight to stay here. 

Some lifeboats bob with the rush of waves in the ocean, but danger awaits them as well, sucked back into the gaping hole on the side of the ship. Toxic gases fill my lungs and the burning is now internal. An arm reaches and pulls me into the lifeboat as consciousness leaves me. 

Water at my lips and brow bring me back to a reality-- a reality I am not sure I want to know.  Along with five other crewmembers, we bob up and down on an oil-slicked surface, surviving the initial sinking and we wait here in the Indian Ocean. I'm still alive but for how much longer?  

The Nazi sub, a stealth-like demon destroyed everything but our souls.  Those belong to our Country and Our God. I can barely make out the face in front of me.  I can see his mouth move, but I hear no sound.  My head is peaceful; no engine noise, no sound of sirens, explosions or screams.

I can only hear my Momma's voice saying, "Memorize this verse, son.  Keep it close to you..."

 The Holy Spirit whispers those precious words of scripture to me.

Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters.  He restores my soul; He guides me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You have anointed my head with oil; My cup overflows.  Surely, goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Note:  the United States Merchant Marines have served in all wars since the American Revolution.  In WWII, these sailors rendered the largest but uncelebrated function between our soldiers at stateside and the actual fighting troops.  These were the sailors of the Liberty Ships, the Victory ships, and the Tankers.  They supplied our troops and braved danger from every form of war weaponry.  It is estimated that during WWII, we lost over 8600 merchant marines at sea.  It has not been until just recently that these brave men were recognized officially by Congress to receive all the accolades and benefits as true members of our military. 

Ship unloading onto barge at Anzio, Italy, War Shipping Administration photo

[Midshipman Edwin J. O'Hara, loading the last shell on the SS Stephen Hopkins.
Painting by W.M. Wilson, reproduced by permission of the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy]

 

The U.S. Merchant Marine falls under the U.S. Transportation Command, and specifically the Military Sealift Command, which is a component of the U.S. Navy. It is not one of the U.S. uniformed services. However, according to the Merchant Marine Act of 1936: "It is necessary for the national defense and development of its foreign and domestic commerce that the United States shall have a merchant marine ... capable of serving as a naval and military auxiliary in time of war or national emergency."

Indeed, some Merchant Marines who were active during WWII did receive U.S. veteran status. According to a section on the Coast Guard site (http://www.uscg.mil/stcw/wwiimm.htm), "On Jan. 19, 1988, the Secretary of the Air Force, Edward C. Aldridge Jr., determined that the service of the 'American Merchant Marine in Oceangoing Service during the Period of Armed Conflict, Dec. 7, 1941, to Aug. 15, 1945,' shall be considered 'active duty' under the provisions of Public Law 95-202 for the purposes of laws administered by the Veterans Administration." This length of time was extended when, "On Veterans Day, 1998, President Clinton signed Public Law 105-368. A provision of this law states that service during the period, Aug. 16, 1945, to Dec. 31, 1946, shall be considered active duty for the purpose of eligibility for certain limited veterans benefits." 
http://freedomisntfree.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=30:14-april-08-military-museum-receives-large-artifact-donation&catid=7:columns-in-the-charlotte-sun&Itemid=14


Happy Father's Day to all Dads and always a special shout out to our military Dads serving near and far.  ♥ God Blessings and safety. Thank you.