Remembering Capt. Purcell

It was Wednesday, Veterans Day, November 11, 2015 as  I hiked to N.C. State's 115-foot Memorial Bell Tower, hoping to see alongside it the new “Swords to Plowshares,” a 24-foot tall touring tower inspired by the prophetic words on its much larger counterpart. According to the News and Observer (N&O), it had been set up temporarily to mark the 100th anniversary of the start of World War I.

It was the brainstorm of 52-year-old Roger Ehrlich from Cary, whose two grandfathers had both served in that “war to end all wars.” For three months, he and some of his "Veterans for Peace" friends had built the mini-tower out of wires and stakes, hanging flattened sides of beer and soda cans around it in rows — shiny side out to look like shimmering aluminum leaves.

According to the N&O, "Ehrlich wants the Veterans for Peace memorial to spark

discussions and stories about the cost of war on all sides, and to heal the wounds both physical and mental that soldiers still carry. With that kind of honesty, he hopes we won’t have to send as many more into harm’s way."

The miniature tower had been dedicated Friday, memorialized Monday, but already — only two days later — it was gone!

But I still wanted to memorialize Captain Purcell, my wife Betsy's beloved father and veteran of an even greater conflict — World War II.

And so I shall.
* * * Charles Walton Purcell, the oldest child, was born on November 2, 1908 at Bells Crossroads (near Louisa, Virginia) when his father was 32 years old and his mother only 22. "Walton," as he was always known, was a hard worker, very intelligent and — like his mother — very interested in medicine. After he graduated from Louisa County Public Schools and the University of Virginia, he attended UVA Medical School where he received his M.D. degree in 1933. Walton then interned at Orange Memorial Hospital in New Jersey, and did his post-graduate work in New York City Hospital. In 1936, he returned to the University of Virginia Medical School for special training in Pediatrics.

In a short time, three of his dreams became reality: marriage to the beautiful Cleo Ashby of Raleigh, North Carolina; birth of his daughter Betsy on November 23, 1936; and — in 1937 — the start of his own private medical practice in Danville, Virginia.

Walton was the only pediatrician in Danville at the time. Because this was during the Depression, most of his patients could not afford to pay him. Instead, they paid him "in kind" rather than with money. They brought what they had raised, or clothes they had made, or anything else they had. Walton kept long office hours, and would go out and see patients at night. Because of his kindness and expert ability, he soon had a large practice.

But all that suddenly changed...

On December 7, 1941, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor and declared war on the U.S. Hitler followed suit only four days later. The U.S., which had been neutral, now found itself dragged into both the Far East and European conflicts. Americans were suddenly battling for their very existence, fighting a world war on two fronts.

With the war came great sacrifice. Throughout every community in America, luxuries were set aside and rationing became a way of life.

Each week, as the list of the missing and those killed in action were read over the radio, you could hear a pin drop. Mothers and fathers were left devastated at the loss of their sons and other family members, and this completely altered their plans for the future. Labor was very scarce during the war with so many men and women serving overseas, so everyone had to "pull their weight," children included.

In 1942, Walton volunteered in the AAF (Army Air Force) Medical Corp; he was commissioned as a First Lieutenant on August 20 and served as a flight surgeon in the Pacific for nearly a year. He returned to the States in December of 1943 as Captain, joining the ranks of several other medical officers in the new Fairfield-Suisun Army Air Base (today's Travis Air Force Base) in Fairfield, California.

Staffing at the fledgling 4167th station hospital consisted of 30 officers, 130 enlisted and 15 civilians. Among these officers was Walton, who moved into one of the military housing units with Cleo and little Betsy. Life for the young captain and his family had surely changed — to say the least.




Betsy remembers her father well. "On many nights," she said, "mother and I would go with him on a call and sit in the car while he attended to a sick family at their home. He was very calm and compassionate. We always felt a sense of security when he was with us because he knew his profession and he knew people. He excelled in his field for two reasons: knowledge of his profession and genuine love for people."

Life on the base for the Purcells went on like that for about a year until it abruptly changed — again. Early on a Saturday morning, November 11, 1944, Captain Purcell was en route from his home to the base hospital to see patients. But, around 7:20 a.m., when he was six miles from Napa, a bus came out of nowhere and collided with his automobile. Captain Purcell was killed instantly.

He never returned to Louisa. Instead, Cleo and Betsy sadly brought his flag-draped army casket back to Cleo's home in Raleigh — on their own "funeral train." They arrived Thursday night; friends and family took Walton's body to the downtown chapel in Cleo's First Baptist Church, where it lay in state until the following afternoon. Services started at 2:30 and were led by two pastors: First Baptist's Dr. Broaddus Jones and Dr. James M. Shelburne, who came all the way from Danville. The solemn burial took place four miles south in beautiful Montlawn Memorial Park.

"Daddy never scolded me," says Betsy. "He had the patience of Job. We all wish he had been with us longer."

I never had the honor of meeting Cleo or Walton, only that of meeting their daughter Betsy, now my dear wife.
              — by Patrick Simpson


— excerpts from "The Purcells: a Family History," by Charles F. Purcell & John J. Purcell, Jr.

Movies from Another Planet

The presence of people with disabilities on the screen – both big and small, as both documentary and fictitious characters – can only help to remove the taboo of disability and activate the inclusion of those with disabilities. Here are five movies worth watching about and featuring special children.

My Left Foot (1989) (above) is an unforgettable and inspiring clip! This classic is based on the autobiography of Irish writer and painter Christy Brown (Daniel Day-Lewis), who had cerebral palsy. Growing up impoverished in Ireland, Brown had very limited communication as a child, but went on to use the tremendous dexterity in his toes not only to write, but to paint and have a remarkable art career. Daniel Day-Lewis and Brenda Fricker both won the Academy Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role and Best Actress in a Supporting Role, respectively.

In Lorenzo's Oil (1992) Susan Sarandon and Nick Nolte give brilliant performances as parents trying to save the life of their son Lorenzo in George Miller's harrowing and heartbreaking tale based on a true story. They are told that Lorenzo has been diagnosed with adrenoleukodystrophy (ALD), a rare and incurable nerve disease that is always fatal. When they are told to be patient as they watch their son sink further into the debilitating illness, they take matters into their own hands and start their own investigation of the disease. The cast includes 16 special children.



Son-Rise: The Miracle of Love (1979) (with Spanish subtitles) stars James Farentino and Kathryn Harrold. Barry Neil Kaufman and his wife Samahria won the Humanitas Prize for their screenplay of this NBC docudrama, after helping their once-autistic son Raun emerge from the “incurable” illness of autism. Adapted by the biographical book Son-Rise (currently Son-Rise: The Miracle Continues), it is the real life story of how, according to his parents, Raun Kaufman completely recovered from severe autism.



Praying with Lior (2007) tracks the real-life journey of Lior, a boy with a comparatively mild form of Down syndrome, as he prepares for his Bar Mitzvah. The film moves beyond the logistics of living with Down syndrome and explores the interaction of disability and faith.



Monica and David (2009) is an upbeat story of a married couple with Down syndrome and their quest for independence. These two high-functioning adults find that as close as they come to living a “normal” life, it always seems out of reach. Available on Netflix.

Centennial

City Hall Centennial
Nogales, Arizona - Feb. 15, 2015

The City Hall in Nogales celebrates its 100th bithday. It is now home of the Pimeria Alta Historical Society and Museum.

The Thunder Mountain Brass Band from Fort Huachuca performs in front of the Pimeria Alta Historical Society Sunday, Feb. 15. in Nogales, Arizona during the 100th anniversary of the Old City Hall. 
   —  (video by PAHS board member Renee Baffert Guevara)

My Most Unforgettable Aussie

15 May 1994, Sunday: After a wild eight-mile ride on the ferry M.V. Valerie Jane, Anne and I docked at the Penneshaw ferry port on Kangaroo Island, rented a car, and headed west; our goal was the Attarak Homestead (see map), a farmstay B&B we'd booked sixty miles in on Mount Taylor Road.

About 90 miles long and 19 miles wide with only 4,000 year-round inhabitants, Kangaroo Island was cut loose from South Australia's mainland some 9,000 years ago. It is truly where the wild things are, a veritable Noah’s Ark of Australian wildlife. Australia's renowned lost world of endangered furred and flying species, including kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, emus and the elusive platypus and echidna, the world's only egg-laying mammals. 

It was late afternoon by the time we arrived at the homestead, a large, sprawling ranch in the middle of the island. We had just entered the enchanted world of Rodger Borgmeyer, owner and host. 

Rodger was about fifty-two and looked and acted like a thin version of movie actor Gene Hackman. He said that his wife, Val, was a schoolteacher. She was taking part in a horse show and had gone for the weekend. "When I moved here with my parents in 1955," he said, "I was fourteen years old and I could ride more than twenty miles in every direction on their farm and not see a fence. It was a great adventure, even though it was hard work picking up stumps and milking cows by hand." — (The Islander: "My Island Home - Rodger Borgmeyer - Best years of my life", by Catherine Murphy Aug. 8, 2013).

We couldn't help but notice several large photos on the walls that depicted Rodger with some of his prized thoroughbred horses. He made us comfortable in front of a large, warm fireplace in the living room and went off to the kitchen to make tea. Almost absent-mindedly I leafed through a large coffee table book entitled Three-Cornered Jack. In it were several articles and color photo spreads on notable characters of South Australia. Suddenly before me was a five-page article on Rodger with several action photographs. There he was on horseback hurdling a fence; and there he was again, jumping through a ring of fire. 

Rodger came back in the room, bringing our tea on a tray.

I said, "You're quite a horseman I see."

"Yes," he smiled. "The man that did that article stayed here a week. I race thoroughbreds and keep them at stud when they retire." He pointed to a picture of himself on a magnificent horse leaping a log fence. "This one is Trumbee. He lives in the paddock out front."

When Rodger left the room again to make our Aussie "tucker" for dinner, our attention was caught by three or four volumes of bush ballads. "Bush" is the Australian equivalent of "forest" and is also applied generally to any locality away from a large city or town. Bush ballads, as we later learned, have outlived most forms of Australian poetry, for a ballad simply sets out to tell a story in easy, rhythmic language, with or without a tune. These narratives are all in simple verse and deal with bush characters or their way of life in the tradition of European folk stories.

I learned that the heroes of Australian bush ballads are known as drovers, diggers, bushrangers, rouseabouts, ringers, shearers, swaggies, sundowners and other equally colorful names. The ballads celebrate "mateship" and feats of individual bravery and endurance over loneliness, heat, floods and distance. Most verses are good-humored, mocking or self-mocking in true Australian fashion; many remain moving and unforgettable, even when they preach.

This was my introduction to that story-world. Suddenly I was swept into life in the bush by the likes of Australian poets such as Adam Lindsay Gordon, W.H. Ogilvie, H.B. Boake, H.H. Morant, Henry Lawson, C.H. Souter and Victor J Daley (A Ballad of Eureka). One book was entitled The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, by A.B. (Banjo) Patterson. It turns out Patterson is the same man who wrote Waltzing Matilda, Australia's unofficial national anthem.

Rodger rejoined us as I put down the book.

"I'm fascinated," I said.

"We get together now and then, my mates and me," he said. "We have a few drinks and sing a few songs and swap stories. I know a lot of 'em by memory, much like the 'cowboy poets' in your country. Some of them were passed along by word of mouth from generation to generation, just like in the Old World. Others sound Irish or Scottish and that's because they are. All of them tell a story and maybe that's why they're so popular."

By now I was captivated. It seemed as if all of Australia – its history, its character, its people – had been boiled down into one essence, one life force. And that life force had a name – Rodger. I suddenly realized that the elusive "real" Australia I'd been looking for was right here, right across the coffee table. Rodger was the sum total of his people – of all that went before him. Eons ago, our ancestors could have been neighbors, but one sailed to America and the other sailed to Australia, evolving into people that were, according to Rodger, "the same, but different." I studied the flames in the fireplace for a long time as dusk settled outside.

Our "tucker" was garden-fresh wonderful and so was the nighttime "ute" (pickup truck) tour of his 1,400 acres. His strong hand-held "torch" (flashlight) lit up the eyes of literally dozens of opossums, wallabies and other critters of the night. His property was alive with them!

We awoke next morning to a Rodger-prepared breakfast of eggs, tomatoes, toast and tea. Afterwards he went out to take care of his animals and I went with him. The cacophony of sound that greeted us was indescribable. Intermingled with the quacking, clucking, crowing and gobbling of hundreds of farm birds, which now came running from all over the place for their breakfast, was the warbling, trilling, cooing and singing of hundreds of wild birds greeting the dawn from the trees overhead. I told Rodger it sounded like an orchestra. He threw another handful of corn to waiting beaks and said, "It's more like a little symphony – and I'm the pied piper!" 

He let me take a final picture of him with Trumbee and then it was time to go. Rodger packed us a lunch and we reluctantly said our goodbyes. This was Rodger's private world and we were sad to leave it, but our memories of it will live forever.

It's the bush that exerts its tenacious hold on the Australian character and it was in the bush where English attitudes and language slipped their shackles and escaped, evolving into something brand new and wonderfully personified by Rodger Borgmeyer, my most unforgettable character in all of Australia.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
Kangaroo Island
Rodger Borgmeyer
Waltzing Matilda

No Shame in Trying!

As a volunteer at the Frankie Lemmon School for special needs children I didn't want to infect my little friends with my horrible cold. So I stayed home, opened the newspaper and read about “Ms. Pearce”.

The lead sentence read: “In 50 years working at Hilltop Home, Etherlene Pearce missed so few days of work, her employees swear she never took a sick day.”

“For shame, Mr. Pat!” said the voice in my head. The article went on. "She came rain, snow, sleet or hail… It didn't make a difference if there was two feet of snow…”

“Hang your head, Mr. Pat!” said the voice. But I read on… I learned that Ms. Pearce spent 50 years caring for the developmentally challenged at Hilltop Home (www.hilltophome.org), a private, nonprofit residential center that serves children with severe developmental and medical disabilities. Ms. Pearce retired only last year as the home's director at age 89. But she’s still going!

“For shame! Look away! Don't look at Mr. Pat!”

Raleigh is just full of inspiring people like Ms. Pearce....For example, Dorothea Dix. In 1841, while teaching Sunday School to a group of women in prison, young Dorothea found her calling. The prisoners, a mix of criminals and the mentally challenged, were kept in dark, damp cells with no blankets or furniture. She was horrified! Dorothea spent the rest of her life lobbying for better conditions for the mentally challenged. She never gave up and in 1856, largely through her work, Raleigh's Dorothea Dix Hospital opened for the care of mentally ill patients. By the 1930s there were over 2,000 patients on a site that at one time included 2,354 acres. Even though she was weak and suffered from tuberculosis, Dorothy never gave up.

“Oh me! Oh my!” said the voice. “You can never be like Dorothy!”

And then there’s Frankie Lemmon - the son of Frank and Georgia Lemmon, a Presbyterian minister and his wife. Young Frankie was born with Down Syndrome. In 1965, the Lemmons were appalled to learn there was no kindergarten in Wake County that would enroll a child like Frankie. So, with help from members of Raleigh’s Hudson Memorial Presbyterian Church, they opened a kindergarten class for children with mental retardation. Having outgrown the space at the Hudson Memorial Church, the Hayes Barton Baptist Church congregation offered to house the school free of charge within its facility; their mission now expanded to include special-needs children ages 3-5. In 2015, the school got its own facility where in three years, 125 students will be able to benefit from Frankie Lemmon's life-changing education and services. 

Starting this fall (2016), Frankie Lemmon School expanded its services to offer inclusive classrooms educating children with and without disabilities. They participate alongside each other, in a setting that provides rich language models and opportunities for developing social skills within a "global" community. 

The Lemmons knew that Frankie would never get better, but they never gave up.

Neither do the teachers. If you've wanted to meet a saint, visit the Frankie Lemmon School. They are ALL saints!. 

I vowed to never give up, either. There is no shame in failure. The shame is in the not trying…sometimes again and again. 

Be still, stupid voice.

Mars Attacks!

RADIO ANNOUNCER: "Good heavens, something's wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. Now here's another and another one and another one. They look like tentacles to me ... I can see the thing's body now. It's large, large as a bear. It glistens like wet leather. But that face, it ... it ... ladies and gentlemen, it's indescribable. I can hardly force myself to keep looking at it, it's so awful. The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent. The mouth is kind of V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver and pulsate."

"... More state police have arrived. They're drawing up a cordon in front of the pit, about thirty of them ... the captain and two policemen advance with something in their hands. I can see it now. It's a white handkerchief tied to a pole ... a flag of truce. If those creatures know what that means ... what anything means! ... Wait! Something's happening! ... There's a jet of flame ... it leaps right at the advancing men. It strikes them head on! Good Lord, they're turning into flame! Now the whole field's caught fire. There's an explosion! The woods ... the barns ... the gas tanks of automobiles ... it's spreading everywhere. It's coming this way. About twenty yards to my right ... 

(CRASH OF MICROPHONE ... THEN DEAD SILENCE)

It was prime time for radio: Sunday evening, October 30, 1938, as millions of Americans listening to the radio heard something they'd never heard from the radio before ... 6 interminable seconds of radio silence.

Their imaginations ran wild – the horror was real: a real Martian invasion was underway. One of the biggest mass hysteria events in U.S. history had begun. What was first reported as a large meteor crashing into a farmer's field in Grovers Mills, New Jersey was rapidly escalating into reports far and wide of a wide scale invasion from Mars.

But the silence was not caused by a microphone and its hapless reporter, being "heat-rayed" into oblivion by Martian walking war machines.

Far from it.

Back in New York City, 23-year-old “boy wonder” of the theatre, Orson Welles, was directing the radio drama, War of the Worlds, an adaptation of H.G. Wells's 1898 novel of the same name. His Mercury Theatre on the Air had become very popular, but little did he know that many of his listeners had tuned in late – too late to hear the announcer mention that the show was fiction. The 6 seconds of radio silence were not brought on by death-dealing Martians; it came out of the creative mind of the supreme mischief maker himself.

At this "dead air" point in the radio script, the inspired Welles poised, arms raised, while his entire assemblage of actors, musicians, sound effects people and stage hands literally froze in place.

Then the downbeat . . .

SECOND ANNOUNCER: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been handed a message that came in from Grovers Mill by telephone. At least forty people, including six state troopers lie dead in a field east of the village of Grovers Mill, their bodies burned and distorted beyond all possible recognition. The next voice you hear will be that of Brigadier General Montgomery Smith, commander of the state militia at Trenton, New Jersey ..."

And reports of the escalating carnage went on and on and on. By now, the imagination of the listeners was running wild, with thousands desperately trying to flee. Panic broke out across the country. Perhaps as many as a million radio listeners that night believed that a real Martian invasion was underway.

When the hoax was finally revealed some two thirds into the 62-minute broadcast, public outrage was swift – and loud. The program's news-bulletin format was described as cruel and deceptive. Newspapers and public figures alike decried this "end-of-the-world" broadcast. In the end, however, no one went to jail, no one was ever proven harmed, and Welles went on to Hollywood, where he made perhaps the greatest movie of all time: Citizen Kane. 
Although I was around at the time, I missed the excitement. I was only one day old!

You can read the original radio script here.

You can download the broadcast itself here.

Heads up! You can watch/DVR a 75th anniversary rebroadcast of the PBS documentary "WAR OF THE WORLDS: AMERICAN EXPERIENCE" at 4-5 a.m. Friday, November 1. See a preview here.

Time Capsule found - and opened!

Posted by: Murphy Woodhouse, Nogales International, January 13, 2015

On Nov. 19, 1914, a handful of Nogales firefighters sent a small lead box full of letters, postcards and other tokens of the era, on a more than 100-year journey through time.

  After a day of searching behind the Pimeria Alta Museum’s cornerstone, which is where the time capsule was stowed, that journey ended Friday morning.

Wearing white gloves and a boyish smile, volunteer firefighter and City Councilman Cesar Parada carefully pulled the box out of its concrete resting spot after municipal employees carefully drilled it loose. The metal container was roughly the size of a hardback book, and weighed about the same in Parada’s estimation. The small group of museum diehards and history buffs surrounding him looked on in wonder.

Raising it up to get a look underneath, Parada added a little humor to the buoyant scene.

“Made in China?” he exclaimed incredulously.

After the first wave of excitement wore off, a more practical concern quickly became clear: the box was completely sealed shut and there was no obvious way to open it.

“We can just use a can opener,” Parada offered with a laugh.

According to museum curator Teresa Leal, getting the box open without further damaging its contents will take no small amount of care. Before proceeding, Leal said she intended to get advice from the Arizona Historical Society

“The box is hermetically sealed which means that there is a health risk of using a method that can damage the box or its contents,” Leal said, adding that “there are plenty of technical measures, but we must do it right.”

The museum hopes to have the box open and its contents out within the next several weeks. The state of the contents, however, is up in the air, as the acids likely present in the box’s documents can do serious damage over time.

While visual confirmation was impossible Friday, it is fairly well known what’s inside the box, Leal said. Among the items placed by Fire Chief Bracey Curtis and other firefighters are clippings from the Nov. 18 Tucson Citizen and Nogales Daily Herald; letters; fire department badges and other memorabilia, as well as a photo of the firefighters themselves.

The building that now houses the museum was originally built as the town hall and fire station. The centennial of the building’s completion is coming up on Feb. 15.

                        History repeats

Though the box was small and the likely items inside simple, everyone interviewed at the museum Friday morning said the moment was significant for Nogales. 

“You get that electric feeling,” Parada said as he held the box.

Leal said that time capsules have a special ability to communicate across decades.

“They can be used to bridge the time element and teach people about celebrating the passage of time,” she said. “In this fast society where everything happens so quickly, it’s good to have something from 100 years ago catch up with us. Time capsules have always had that ability to teach us about the intrinsic value of time.”

In an effort to pay forward the actions of the Nogales firefighters more than a century ago, the Pimeria Alta Museum intends to put together its own capsule in the coming months, said board president Suzanne “Susie Sainz.”

Pimeria Historical Society members can pay a $100 annual membership to add a small part to the capsule, which will be placed in the same cornerstone site in November 2015, according to Leal.

“History repeats itself,” Leal said of the effort to put in a new capsule. 

The Paiute Princess

09 March 2005, Wednesday:

I was there when Sarah Winnemucca’s life-sized bronze statue was unveiled in the U.S. Capitol’s Rotunda. The only other Indian woman that shares that honor is Sacagawea, who led explorers Lewis and Clark to the Pacific Ocean. As the schoolchildren and citizens across France and America had donated whatever they could to pay for the Statue of Liberty, the citizens of Nevada, from schoolchildren to senior citizens, had raised money for Sarah’s statue.

It was a big day and hundreds of people were there. Among them were a large group of Nevada Indians, including Louise Tannheimer, grandniece of Sarah; and Ralph Bums, a Pyramid Lake Paiute who gave a blessing in the tribe’s language. Washington’s top leaders made remarks, as well as Nevada Governor Kenny Guinn who, with his wife, Dema, had helped raise money for the project. And there was a very excited delegation from the Nevada Women’s History Project, who had first proposed the idea of a statue.

Striking a pose remarkably like the Statue of Liberty, Sarah’s extended right hand held a shellflower, symbolizing her Paiute name of Thocmetony (“Pretty Shell Flower”). Her left hand held a copy of her book, Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims, the first book written in English by an American Indian woman. But, unlike the other statues in the hall, Sarah appeared to be in constant motion; the fringes of her native dress seemed to sway with some unfelt wind.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
Sarah Winnemucca
statue
Sacagawea
Pyramid Lake
Nevada Women’s History Project
Life Among the Piutes: Their Wrongs and Claims

Sadako & the Thousand Paper Cranes

Saturday, 20 August 1994, Japan:

Shortly after 1994's Peace Day commemorations in Hiroshima's Peace Memorial Park, we happened upon a wonderfully poignant scene. Thousands and thousands of folded paper cranes had been laid around the Children's Peace Monument. The heap was as high as our heads and fifty feet long. Atop the domed memorial a likeness of Sadako Sasaki reached skyward, her arms holding the metal outline of a paper crane high above her head.

Twelve-year old Sadako Sasaki had a dream – to be the best runner in her class. They say she never lost a race. But one day, she started to get sick. At first she tried to keep it a secret from her family, but that didn't last long. They took her to the hospital to get the most frightening news…

Sadako was only two years old when a sudden explosion near her home blew her out of the window. Thinking she was dead, her mother ran out to find her, but found her alive. She looked up to see about a mile away a giant mushroom cloud boiling six miles up into the sky. The landscape was utterly devastated – flattened houses, snapped trees, bent flag poles – with flames already licking the air. People were crying and dying before her eyes. Sadako's mother fled, carrying her daughter, but they couldn't escape the "black rain."

It was August 6, 1945, the day an atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima – the day when everything changed — not only for the world, but for Sadako. Only she didn't know it…

She'd also been exposed to a radiation time bomb.

Nine years later, lumps began to develop on Sadako's neck and behind her ears. She began to suffer from dizzy spells when she was running until the day she collapsed in front of teachers. Her parents took her to the hospital where she was hospitalized. The prognosis: leukemia with – at the most – a year to live. The lumps slowly grew bigger, making her look as if she had the mumps.

One story recounts the day her best friend Chizuko brought her some paper and showed her how to fold it into a paper crane. She told her about the legend of the origami cranes and the Japanese belief that if you could fold 1,000 cranes, you could have a wish granted. "I wish to live," said Sadako as she began trying to fold her 1,000 cranes. She folded as many as the sickness allowed. Then she would string thread through them and her brother would hang them from the ceiling. She would say, "I will write peace on your wings and you will fly all over the world."

Some days she just didn't have the strength to fold them. Her friends would visit and say, "It's time to rest. You can make more birds tomorrow." Unfortunately, she only made it to 644 before she died, surrounded by her family. Following her death, her friends finished the remainder of the 1,000 cranes and buried them with her.

Her story was picked up by newspapers and published in Eleanor Coerr’s children’s book "Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes". Later, inspired young people from all over Japan raised funds to build the Children's Peace Monument in the new Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. It was dedicated to Sadako and all of the children who had died from the effects of the atomic bomb. In 1958, a statue of Sadako standing on the Mountain of Paradise holding a golden crane was unveiled in the park.

Sadoko lost the race to save her life but she won the hearts of millions. To this day, children all over Japan and the world fold paper cranes and ship them to the park by the box load. On Peace Day (August 6th) thousands of them are placed at the statue's base. At the foot of the statue is a plaque that reads:

"This is our cry. This is our prayer. For building peace in the world."

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

Why the Caged Bird Sings

Each of these "disabled celebrities", along with countless others, were once thought of as "caged" by their disability. But they had teachers who cared, who recognized their abilities, who applauded them warmly from the wings. They were once "special children" who, with the help of someone who loved them, taught them, mentored them, became – if you will – "special disabled celebrities." Their teachers played a large part in helping these "caged birds" to sing. Poet, actor and playwright Neil Marcus has dystonia and describes himself as a "fantastic spastic". He challenged conventional ideas about disability in his play, Storm Reading, voted one of Los Angeles' top ten plays of 1993. Harvey Jackins was the teacher that influenced him the most.

"The caged bird sings with a fearful trill" *

Helen Keller was blind, deaf and mute. Then "miracle worker" Anne Sullivan became her private teacher and changed her life forever. Helen Keller became an American author, political activist, and lecturer – the first deaf-blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree.

"of things unknown but longed for still" *

Albert Einstein, thought to have Asperger's syndrome, developed his Special Theory of Relativity with his famous equation "e = mc2". He unlocked mysteries of the Universe previously unknown. But he had help along the way. As a student in the University of Zürich, his German mathematics teacher, Herman Minkowski, had a major influence on his ideas.

"and his tune is heard on the distant hill" *

Andrea Bocelli is perhaps the greatest singer in the world. Celine Dion once said, “If God could sing, He would sound a lot like Andrea Bocelli.” Blind since the age of 12, someone always guides him on stage to the waiting microphone – always to uproarious applause. Famous Italian tenor Franco Corelli was not only his friend and mentor, but his teacher. Click to hear Bocelli now!

"for the caged bird sings of freedom." *

Think back. Who was your favorite teacher? I have more than one. They are the teachers at the Frankie Lemmon School in Raleigh. I got to know them quite well during my 4 years as a volunteer there. In my opinion, they are more than teachers – they are saints in charge of teaching "caged birds" to sing. If you have a special needs child between the ages of 3-6, run, walk or crawl your little one to see for yourself how they'll interact with both teachers and students. Meet the staff. Take a tour of this fabulous school. You won't regret it! Watch this utterly fascinating video of famous people with disabilities. Careful! You may learn that some of them have the same disability as you!
* Maya Angelou ― I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

Triangle Run/Walk for Autism 2013

I volunteered over four years at the Frankie Lemmon School for special needs children. Why? I was inspired by my granddaughter, now 23, who has high-functioning autism. When I was at the Autism Run/Walk in Raleigh on Saturday, October 12, 2013, I videoed my version of the event. When I watched the video, I almost cried. Why? Because they inspired me too!

Emma Lazarus

Not long ago, I watched a PBS documentary about the Statue of Liberty. To PBS's credit, the plaque at its base was read verbatim.
       "Give me your tired, your poor, 
        your huddled masses …" 
However, no mention was made of its author, Emma Lazarus, who was a major Jewish American literary figure born in New York City.

So I will; I feel I must because – as it turned out – my gentile daughter married into a family with Jewish roots. It happened at a time in my life when I was busily researching our own family tree. After her first son was born, I wanted to learn all I could about his roots. So, I set about meeting with his other grandmother, who said, "I have a book with a four-page genealogical chart inside of it. My parents and Emma Lazarus are both on it, but I've never been able to make the connection. Maybe you can." With that, she gave me a copy of The Grandees: America's Sephardic Elite by Stephen Birmingham (Syracuse University Press, 1971).

I took the challenge. The chart, although lengthy and detailed, was an abbreviated version of "America's Sephardic Elite", derived from Americans of Jewish Descent, an eight-pound tome containing 25,000 names traced as far back as the sixteenth century. It was compiled by Rabbi Malcolm H. Stern in 1960 and quickly became a "who's who" of Jewish high society. After a lengthy study of my own, I finally made the connection; I traced my grandson's ancestors twelve generations up to Moses Raphael Levy (b.1665 in Germany; d. 1728 New York City) and then eight generations down the other side to Emma Lazarus. It turns out that my grandsons (now two) were born into a great family, indeed!

In the process I felt as if I'd gotten to know Emma Lazarus as a real person. She was a descendent of Sephardic Jews fleeing the Spanish Inquisition who arrived in America even before the American Revolution – her father could trace his ancestry back to the first twenty-three Jews who settled in New York in 1654 on the "Jewish Mayflower". Emma herself had received a classic private education and was very much an upper-class New York Jew,

But this all changed in the early 1880s when she first met Eastern European refugees escaping from Russia's vicious anti-Semitic pogroms. It was bad enough that they were poor, sick, and uneducated, but worse; many American Jews in Emma's own social circles seemed embarrassed by the unsophisticated Jewish refugees. They didn't want to associate with these "different Jews."

This infuriated Emma and awakened within her a renewed commitment to Judaism. Already an important figure in New York's elite literary circles, she began to write passionate Jewish poems and essays and personally helped refugees with money, food, clothing and even training. She wrote "The New Colossus" in 1883 for a fundraiser auction to build a pedestal for the Statue of Liberty. This sonnet, in which America is depicted as the golden land of hope and opportunity for the oppressed, was auctioned in a benefit sale for $21,500, a sum unheard-of for a short piece of poetry. Emma Lazarus died only four years later, at the age of 38, most likely from Hodgkin's lymphoma. In 1903, her poem was engraved on a metal plaque, and attached to the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
Statue of Liberty
Emma Lazarus
The Grandees: America's Sephardic Elite
Americans of Jewish Descent
Jewish Mayflower
Russia's vicious anti-Semitic pogroms

American Indian Heritage Celebration 2013: We're Still Here!

I was inspired to make this video after my visit to the 18th annual American Indian Heritage Celebration at the NC Museum of History on November 23rd. Did you know that there are over 122,000 American Indians living in the eight state-recognized Indian tribal communities in North Carolina?

All eight were well represented here: the Coharie, Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, Haliwa-Saponi, Lumbee, Meherrin, Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation and the Sappony and the Waccamaw Siouan. All told, approximately 33 Native American tribes have resided in North Carolina during the state's recorded history.

It was actually a giant powwow, a large social gathering with lots of dancing, drumming and singing...a place where the people practice their identity and want to be proud of their identity. Parents and children alike shared the dance circle and the singing circle. There was a feeling here, a real spirit of friendship, love, open arms and hospitality — a feeling that no matter who you were or where you come from, you could stand together and dance together in one circle.

People from all walks of life come to this event.

Why?

Lots of reasons: Some people want to enjoy the beautiful outfits. Others just want to look at all the people because it's a very big event. People watch and say "Wow! What's that dance about? Why are they dancing this dance? What are the songs saying?"

So watch, listen and learn...most of all, ENJOY!

Warning: My bit about the Cherokee "Trail of Tears" may tug at your heart. 


Coharie http://www.coharietribe.org/index.html
Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians http://nc-cherokee.com/
Haliwa-Saponi http://haliwa-saponi.com/
Lumbee http://lumbeetribe.com/
Meherrin http://meherrinnation.org/
Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation http://www.obsn.org/
Sappony http://www.sappony.org/
Waccamaw Siouan: http://www.waccamaw-siouan.com/

Note: The Trail of Tears is a name given to the ethnic cleansing and forced relocation of Native American nations from southeastern parts of the United States following the Indian Removal Act of 1830. The removal included many members of the Cherokee, Muscogee (Creek), Seminole, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations, among others in the United States, from their homelands to Indian Territory in eastern sections of the present-day state of Oklahoma. Many Native Americans suffered from exposure, disease and starvation on the route to their destinations. Many died, including 2,000-6,000 of 16,542 relocated Cherokee. — Wikipedia

Tara! Home!

Wednesday, 12 October 1994: 

Remembering Scarlett’s “Tara” from Margaret Mitchell's novel, Gone with the Wind, we planned to visit a place we'd always wanted to see, the fabled Hill of Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland.

We drove (crawled) endlessly that morning through fat rolls of fog. Suddenly the sun broke through and there it was – Tara! We were excited.

But it looked very closed.

We found a path leading up to a place marked on my map as Saint Patrick’s Church, used as a visitors center next to the site. The car gate was locked but the footpath was open so I lifted Anne's wheelchair over the wall and we were on our way. A young man greeted us at the church.

“Oh, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “We’re open. Must’ve forgotten to unlock the gate.” He was friendly enough, but I think he was taking a nap. “The church is no longer a church,” he said, “but a visitors center. The tour includes a good audiovisual show as well. I’ll start it up for you.”

We sat in one of the church pews and he disappeared into the church somewhere. Suddenly, long black window shades began to lower on all the windows at once, shutting out the sunlight. Simultaneously, a movie screen lowered to the altar in front of us and, when all was ready, the show began. It was a good audiovisual indeed: Tara, Meeting Place of Heroes. The story unfolded like a dream; we learned that nearly two thousand years ago, Tara was the seat of the most powerful rulers in Ireland. Here the high king and his royal court lived in their ceremonial residence while they feasted and watched over the realm. They were gone now, but the sense of their commanding presence remained.

The show was especially good for Anne because it gave overall aerial views of the place and was about the only way she could see it. The Hill of Tara was grass-covered and bumpy, as we could see from the film, and not friendly to wheelchairs. Afterwards she looked longingly at the gentle sloping hill from the church door. She sighed “If I only had wings …”

The young man sensed her yearning for two good feet. “Sorry about that,” he said, almost inaudibly. Then he smiled. “Here, let me push you back to your car while your husband has a look around.”

I wandered out into the wide meadows. We were together, Tara and I, three hundred feet above the plains of Meath. After fifty centuries of pagan rulers and powerful kings, I alone was left standing here this day; among the grassy mounds and depressions that once were Stone Age passage tombs, Iron Age forts, and ruined houses of kings. Fifty centuries of living had once filled the air with wild shouts of war and pagan revelry – later to be stilled by St. Patrick’s reverent voice of prayer as he baptized thousands here. Tara’s influence declined soon after Christianity took root in the country but more recently, in 1843, Daniel O’Connell, the “Liberator” and leader of the opposition to union with Britain, held one of his “monster meetings” here and drew a crowd of 750,000 people.

All were distant memories now. I stood alone with the fading echoes of the past. After one last look, I too, was gone.

(Excerpt from Wheelchair Around the World, by Patrick Simpson)

My Mom, the Writer

Posted by Patrick Simpson, Dec. 29, 2014.

My Mom, Alma Ready, LOVED Arizona! In fact, she loved everything West. And she loved to write. She passed that love on to me, even though I barely knew her as a child. My parents divorced when I was only five and my father moved back East, taking my brother Jim and me with him. I didn't see Mom again until I was twelve and then again when I was eighteen when – for a short time – I lived with her and Teddy, her fourth (and last) husband. 

I’d always resented having to grow up 2,400 miles from her. But we always wrote to each other. And sometimes called each other. She sent pictures of the West and I would look at them. She wrote stories of the West and I would read them. She was a photo-journalist – and a good one I might add. She contributed to newspapers such as the Arizona Republic, the Nogales International and – most spectacularly, I must add – Arizona Highways Magazine, the "official source for Arizona travel information, stunning Arizona photography & unique feature articles." 

One day, while trying to put together a portfolio of pictures of Santa Cruz County for the Arizona Republic, she learned from a Nogales librarian that – much to her surprise – the county's history had never been written. So, "to do the job right," she wrote, "I needed to live in Santa Cruz County!" 

So, at age sixty, she moved south from Tucson to Nogales where she researched, wrote and photographed everything West, even doing a series of picture pages for the Arizona Republic's Sunday Magazine, "Days and Ways." She published her county history, Open Range and Hidden Silver, in 1973. It was followed by Calabasas: A True Story in 1976 and A Very Small Place in 1989 – as well as much more.
 

Nogales never knew what hit it. Soon after becoming president of the Pimeria Alta Historical Society, she realized it needed a great deal of space for a museum. After learning that the old Nogales City Hall was available, she ram-rodded a successful effort to move in. Today it occupies the entire bottom floor!

Meanwhile, after years of separation, I’d actually written a draft version of my first book. Not knowing what to expect, I called her and asked, “Mom, would you proofread it for me?” Without hesitation and much to my relief, she said “Yes.” So I mailed it to her and she returned it, section by section, with all changes, suggestions and errors meticulously written or underlined in red. From that moment on, we became “buddies.”

I would visit her while on business trips from Raleigh and we even did the three-mile round-trip hike at Fort Bowie National Historic Site. (She was in her eighties!) She wanted to show me her West and did so over the next few years. My wife joined me more than once as I drove while Mom navigated – from Nogales day trips into Mexico to overnight trips north to Navajo country and Lake Powell. Mom was tireless! And by now, Teddy had died but she already had a new boyfriend. 

The last time I saw Mom was at a nursing home in Nogales; she was 95. But, on May 29, 2003, Mom died. I’ll never forget her memorial service, held on the bottom floor of the very museum she’d helped found. Even though she’d outlived most of her contemporaries, over forty people – friends, admirers, co-workers, several young people – came to pay their respects. The museum’s large research library was dedicated and renamed the Alma D. Ready Library. In a special presentation a beautiful stone plaque, created by Mexican artist “Alonzo”, was mounted at the library entrance. It featured a windmill taken from one of Mom’s photographs.


I’ll be forever thankful to then society president Axel C. F. Holm, who did an incredible job of arranging the service. 

Mom had many friends and was a lover of art, music, poetry and everything Arizona. She will be deeply missed by her family and the many people whose lives she has touched over the years. About Nogales she wrote: "I have been very happy here. The country is beautiful, the 'Border Culture' fascinating, the people friendly, and the climate near-perfect. This is where I feel at home." 

They say that home is where the heart is and Mom's heart had indeed found a home – in a place called Nogales. And my heart has found forgiveness – and love. In the words of Jesus: "honor your father and mother..." (Matthew 19:19, NIV). I love you Mom!
                                          –  Patrick D. Simpson