Midnight Snacks in a Septic Drain Field

         Bud stood at the counter smiling at me as I flipped the luscious hamburgers simmering in my favorite cast iron skillet. “There’s nothing like hamburgers to get the taste buds rolling.” He licked his lips. “Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a coffee can full of ground hamburger from the Germans and hid it inside a drain pipe? Actually it was a sewer pipe.”

            Uncertainty washed up inside me. “I—I think so . . .”

            “It happened the time me and some of my buddies walked past the shed where food was prepared. It was quiet. I don’t know why, but no one was there—not one guard, not even another  prisoner, only an oversized coffee can covered by a ragged towel set near the door.

            “Coffee, I could almost taste it on my tongue and my mouth started to water. I took a deep breath. My buddies looked at me with questions in their eyes and I knew what they were thinking. Oh, for a swallow of real coffee, not chicory, or whatever was they were serving; a taste of the real thing was worth solitary confinement, or whatever they might cook up.

            “I took a deep breath and held it. Fresh meat, I could smell it. Was it coming from the coffee can? Could it possibly be the meat we so craved?” My stomach growled and I bent forward hoping no one had heard.

            I slid the turner underneath a patty, flipped it and smiled at him. “And then?”

            “My appetite took over my brain. I grabbed the can and towel even as I heard a yell from a fellow prisoner. ‘They’re coming. Drop it! Get out now!

            "I took a quick look into the oven to check on the scallop potatoes bubbling out goodness and delicious smells and smiled at him. “But instead of dropping it you shoved both can and towel underneath your shirt and took off running like a deer.'"

            “Yep, I did. And when I did, prisoners and guards scattered every which way.  When I slowed to a stop, I remember standing alone gasping for breath in the middle of a clearing where I’d never seen before.

            “Just then I spotted a jutted muddy road. I took a deep breath and a rancid odor almost overwhelmed my senses. And then I saw it. A trickle of smelly water edged towards me. The clearing was obviously a drain field from an ancient septic tank.

            “At the same moment I heard a shout and the blast of a gun and knew the guards were getting closer. I was almost out of time. I scrambled forward and fell to my knees in front of the drain pipe.  Using my hands I pushed aside rocks and mud, then shoved the can inside the drain opening covering it with grass and reeds. 

            ‘”I stood and when I did I saw them comin’ straight towards me. I took a staggering step in their direction then shook my head as I pointed toward the foul mud. ‘Smells,’ I shouted as I grabbed my nose.  Dirty water. Slimy white things, nasty bugs, crawdads too. It’s crawlin’ with them.’

            “The horror of their gaze raked over me even as they slowly backed away. ‘We no touch,’ one shouted.  ‘Away, away!’”

            “’We bring water. Much water,’ another shouted.

            “And then I knew. My can of food was safe and so was I. It even sounded like I might get some soap and water. Maybe even a fresh set of clothes.”

            “But you didn’t get them did you?”  I covered the burgers with a lid and adjusted the heat beneath the bubbling corn down a notch.

           

            “No. The soap and water, yes. But I suspect they burned my clothes.  Sadly the clothes they gave me as replacements weren’t quite so warm as our old ones were.

            “But I still had the meat hidden in the drain pipe. Several of us banded together and we’d slip out to the clearing under cover of darkness. We did the best we could to make our find stretch by gathering greens during the day and slipping them into our pockets. Once we were in the clearing we made a tiny fire near the drain pipe where we cooked pieces of hamburger mixed with the greens in a helmet. At other times we fried them into delicious patties. Even the grease tasted wonderful.

            “We were careful to take turns using our helmets as a cooking bowl though. We didn’t want the guards to notice just one helmet getting slowly darker and darker from much use. I must say the meat from the can added a special touch to our repasts.”

            “Sort of like the Swiss family Robinson,” I mused. “They ate almost everything in sight.  Except they thrived and you didn’t.”  

            “But I survived,” he said, and the light went out of his eyes.

            I swallowed hard, and then changed the subject. “Dinner’s ready. Could you please call the kids while I get it on the table?”

            He didn’t answer. Did he even hear me?

            My stomach wrapped into a knot.

            I tried again. “Beth, Dow, Clytie and Mark. Could you tell them dinner’s ready? They’re out back creating roads in the dirt. When I went out earlier Dow was digging a tunnel while Mark stacked a pile of twigs into a miniature mountain. Clytie had a knife and spoon from the kitchen to create roads while Beth picked, then planted Johnny-Jump-Ups and fern fronds all along the sides of the road.”

            “Funny you’d say that. We ate them you know, tender fern fronds, yellow violets, that’s what we called your Johnny-Jump-Ups.”  He reached out his hand to me. “Let’s go get the kids together. I want to see what they’ve created with my own eyes. It might even help me put down a few of those memories that keep springing up from the past.”

            We smiled at each other as we went outside hand in hand, each step a thought, each thought a prayer. 

            Lord, give us wisdom and help us to help one another.  Then words from Proverbs 2:6-7 whispered into my heart. The Lord gives wisdom . . . He lays up sound wisdom for the righteous; he is a shield to those who walk uprightly.

A Blue, Blue Day and a Dark, Dark Night

            The matching blue blouse and pants my friend gave me warmed my soul. Even though pantsuits were no longer in style, it was exactly right for me and I could hardly wait to show it off to my husband.

           

Just thinking about him made me feel sad. A recent accident on the freeway had sent the two of us plunging across the crowded freeway. My husband who was driving had swerved to avoid an object in the highway, lost control and flipped us head over teakettle three times before landing on the other side shoved up against the guard rail.

            Although I was untouched except for a bruised arm, I had to be cut out of our car with the Jaws of Life. My husband however suffered a severe cut on the top of his head--he was literally scalped, and his neck was broken.

            This man of mine who loved to drive became a prisoner of the neck brace he had to wear 24-7.  He spent five days in the hospital then we brought him to our youngest daughter's home.  Later we brought him to my eldest daughter's place where there was air conditioning to combat the summer's heat.

            It was a blessing that Bud was able to walk and move with a broken neck.  Beth and I worked together to do what we could to help him gain back his independence. Although we encouraged him to do the exercises the nurse who came to see him twice weekly assigned, he was uncooperative.

            A few month's later we returned to our own home. Still weak from his injuries he spent his days sitting in a chair in the living room. However he boldly proclaimed his freedom to do what he wanted. “If I have to use a walker and not be able drive I'm not going anywhere, and you can't make me.” He said it several times through clenched teeth.

            But blue is his favorite color and I do look pretty, I thought.  I smiled at my reflection in the mirror and smoothed the blue collar into place. I hope he likes it.  He loves blue and he loves me.

            If only I could bring forth a smile from this man I had married so long ago. But as I entered the room where he sat I saw something I'd never seen before. Hatred poured out of his eyes. His hand stretched out like a fan. His lips twisted into a snarl. “Stop” he shouted. “Don't come one step closer.”

            “Bud,” I cried. “I'm your wife. I—I love you.”

            And then I was beside him, heard him say, “Honey, I'm so sorry.  I—I thought you were the German soldier who poked me over and over again in the butt with a bayonet.” And then our arms were around each other.

            Tears came as we wept together.

            Later we talked about it.

            “I don't remember all the details,” he gasped, “but I do remember that the place they took me smelled of urine and vomit and was as dark as a dungeon. They used the whip and the bayonet for hours on my bare back and buttocks. Sometimes they even hit me in the face. But no matter what they did, or what they asked, I refused to give them any information that might incriminate my cell mates, or put our country in danger.”

            Once again his arms went around me. “I'm sorry, so sorry I hurt you. But—but I thought. . .”

            “You thought I was the soldier dressed in blue who tortured you and I understand. Really I do. I'll not wear this outfit again. I promise.”

            I experienced a sense of relief later that day as I folded it and put it in the bag I'd set aside for those in need. Somewhere, somehow my blue outfit would make another woman who needed a touch of a beauty happy.

            A touch of blue. 

            I stood and pushed the curtain aside, then watched in awe as a shaft of sunlight filtered through the trees surrounding our home. For a moment it flashed gold flecks onto the path and suddenly I knew.

 

            In spite of dark days and nights of terror we had God's promise; He who makes all things beautiful in His time would never leave or forsake us. With God we could move forward with confidence and expectation.

            We could do it, one step at a time.

A New Red Dress

The photo above is of my husband and his buddies when he was in the army.  He was a sweet and handsome man.  We were married when I was just 18 years old.  Our first child, Beth, was born a year later.

Trips to Portland were something special when I was a young mother.  But today was different. Our oldest daughter, Beth, had reached the golden age of six and Bud and I had decided she should have a brand new dress on that special first day.

It wasn't that she needed clothes, she had plenty what with all her cousins and their generous supply of hand me downs.  But she needed a store bought dress. In my mind I saw it as bright red with ruffles at the neck and on the sleeves. Would I find one at the Meier and Frank store which towered 12 stories high over our heads?

We needed to get a good deal and that's why we chose to come to town for their special Friday Surprise sale in the basement. The sidewalk was already crowded with eager shoppers milling around waiting for the doors to open. Some were even elbowing their way into the line. An over eager woman pushed her shopping bag into my face and then whopped her purse against my back side. Others pounded on the locked doors hoping to be the first to enter.

I turned back towards my husband but he was no longer there. As I searched the sea of faces I spotted him on the other side of the street. I waved frantically then headed towards him through the crowd.

“Why did you leave me?” I cried when I reached his side. 

“I—I couldn't stay,” he said.  “I had to get away. The lines, the crowds. For a little while . . .

And then I knew. I saw the crowds and a ruffled red dress, but he stood beside me and saw the lines the prisoners were forced to form in the prison camp at Bad Orb. 

I pictured them outside the barracks. So many youthful boys and yet they had to act like men in a world turned upside down. 
 

I reached for Bud's hand and he took it. We stood close together but the blank horror in his eyes told me he was in another world. A world of hate and terror. A world where boys were forced into situations they had never before seen or even imagined. 

 I lifted my head as he started to speak. “Standing in line we were at the mercy of the Germans. When they told us to repeat our names some were snatched from the line-up and taken away.

“When they came to me they said I had to go with them. But then one of them said the prisoner standing next to me was the one who should be taken instead. He pushed me back into line then grabbed the man, the two of us, shoulder to shoulder. 'You come with us,” the German ordered.  'He has Jewish name. This other one, he just American. Maybe next time.'

“And I was pushed back into line.  Waiting, waiting, for what I did not know.” He bowed his head and pressed his fingers into his forehead. His voice fell to a whisper, “I never saw him again. But several days later I smelled something awful in the air. It smelled like flesh burning.  It was horrible and deep inside I knew. The Jewish prisoner with whom I had stood side by side was no longer with us. He who had been taken instead of me had been cooked to death in the ovens.”

“Is that why . . .” I couldn't finish my thought, it was too sad. “I'm sorry,” I whispered.  “Please, let's, let's just go home. The children, they just might need us by now.”

“But there will be no red dress for our Beth.” 

And then we saw it—a candy shop displaying a tray of red and white candy in the window.  Bud reached for the door and we were inside. The pungent smell of peppermint and yummy chocolate permeated the air. We smiled at each other. 

“I don't think we need to worry,” he said as he reached for a white paper bag. “Let's fill 'er up. We're going to have a party!”

And we did. 

Eventually we found and bought that pretty red dress with ruffles at the neck for dear little Beth.  

Walking Through the Shadows

            My husband laid beside me on our bed, his hands; his fingers spread wide into what appeared to be an open cup. I said his name softly, “Bud.”

            There was no answer. He lay on his side, his gray eyes wide open and I knew. My husband had gone back to another world on the other side of the planet which I could neither see, nor enter.

            His words came in broken bits and pieces as though he probed the darkness for insight. “We were prisoners of war. We were hiking uphill through the snowy forests of France. My legs shook. I couldn’t feel my toes. I heard the shout, ‘Halt!’ My stomach growled. "I was so hungry. Would there be food?"

            For a moment his eyes closed. He breathed a sigh of relief. "The clearing where we were was crowded with snow covered logs. I chose the nearest one and though it was icy and cold, it felt good to sit down. I reached for the stale bread I was handed by a guard and shoved it into my mouth. But as I licked the crumbs off my lips I looked down and saw a frozen hand, the fingers stiff and spread wide reaching out to me.

            “It was horrifying. The log was a dead man--only his hand stuck out of the snow. Just moments before, I’d sat there glad for a place to sit and eat my lunch. But this man would never move again. Death found him. His life—gone forever.”  His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, then opened. 

            “Bud, I love you—I...”  But he still stared into that dark place, lost in a world I could not see, or comprehend.

            “I hate my hand.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “This hand; it’s done awful things—these fingers pulled the trigger and one German after another fell face down in the dirt. But I had to do it. They told us...” His voice rose to a shout. “Shoot anything that moves!’ And so I did.”

            Bud was only 18 when he was drafted and thrust into battle.  He was just a boy.  My thoughts of the war; the awful Battle of the Bulge with bombs bursting over head and firearms repeating their sentences of death over and over again. Almost I could hear the screams.

            Too late, I thought. World War II is over, but it still whispers its message of hate into the fragile minds of brave soldiers who, though some survived, were marked for life with scars marking both mind and body.

            “Bud,” I whispered, “it was war and you told me you fought for your family and country, and you always said you’d do it all over again if another Hitler rose to power sending innocent men, women and children to the ovens where they died by the millions.”

            I reached for his curled hand, but still lost in the past, he pulled away from my touch. Hurt twisted in the deep places of my being. How could I find words to bring comfort to his soul and to mine?

             “Bud, you have beautiful hands and a brave and tender heart.” Tears trembled in my voice. “Why, I’ve watched you cradle your fingers beneath our little ones' chins and gently wipe their tears away. I've watched you build our home, plant a garden. You’re a good husband and father. We love you so much. We always have. We always will.”

            His face softened—a small smile.  His eyes closed, he finally let me hold his hands in mine. 

            Then I reached for the lamp switch.  I tried to swallow the lump building in my throat. “Bud,"  I said softly.  "You always said things were worse in the darkness. Both of us, you and me, we’ll feel better in the morning. The sun will light up the tree tops and we’ll smile at each other while its rays touch our faces.  We have God’s promise. ‘Weeping may endure for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning!’

            Not long after this my husband suffered a stroke and a few months later, he left this world for the next.  I miss him more than I can express in words—yet I know someday I will see his dear face again.

            Some of you are walking through the shadows—caught in the mire of darkness and grief.  Reach for the light, dear ones. You are not alone. God loves you and Joy truly does come in the morning.

            “For His anger is but for a moment, His favor is for a lifetime; Weeping may last for the night, But a shout of joy comes in the morning.” ~Psalm 30:5