Medical Insurance: I'm Mad as Hell and I Don't Want to Take it Anymore!

These figures are based on our actual salary and insurance premium figures.Each bar shows the rate of increase compared to 2004.

     Every year about this time we have "Open Enrollment" for health and medical benefits at my husband's employer. And every year about this time I become outraged over the state of our health system and I shake my fist at the whole insurance industry. My outcry begins at line item one where it shows the premium for our plan. It will cost us $84.00 more each month for the same insurance we had last year, bringing our total cost to $462 per month for family coverage. The company adds something to this and I don't know that amount but, I would guess it's double. The company used to offer three plans to choose from; a low, middle and high cost plan. Each year they eliminated one of the plan options. Now we are offered an all-or-nothing deal. In addition to this, we contribute to a Medical Spending Account which provides us with pre-tax dollars deducted from husband's salary to use on all the expenses the insurance doesn't cover like deductibles, co-pays, etc. I am all for MSA's and this really isn't part of the problem.
     I'm appalled at this huge increase in medical insurance premiums when we are in an economy where salaries have certainly not gone up. Most employees are not receiving cost of living increases let alone annual raises of any type and many have had to take pay cuts just to stay employed. Last year the premium increase was just as large and I vented on facebook. It was met with apathy. And there's the rub. No one really takes up the torch for this cause and rallies against the insanity of it all. Yes, some will say Obama's health care initiative is addressing this problem, but it actually doesn't. His plan is to provide coverage for all citizens, but I don't believe it addresses the rising cost of medical care and health insurance. As a matter of fact, since he took office our premiums have  increased the most. I realize his plan hasn't gone into effect, and perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction from the industry when he started talking health care, I don't know. But I want to stand out in the middle of the field and scream for someone to listen! This is how helpless I feel.
     My gut reaction (which is total nonsense) is that we all need to cancel our insurance and everyone needs to take a stand against being screwed. If the entire country bought no insurance... can you imagine? The question is, am I willing to take the gamble. Because that's what insurance is, a gamble. We are protecting ourselves against the "what-if". What if I get hit by a car and land in the hospital? What if my child needs an operation? The fear of it all has me running to hedge my bets and buy the insurance. It's called fear-mongering. If I wasn't so afraid of a massive hospital bill which would in turn cause financial ruin to my family, I wouldn't buy the insurance.
     All insurance operates this way, but most have smaller increases in premiums each year. We can shop around for the levels of coverage we want and who might offer the best plan. Some of the control lies within our own hands. Homeowners, auto, and life insurance all charge minimal premiums compared to the cost of medical.
     I don't see this type of free-market enterprise working well in the system as it stands now. Has anyone tried calling around for a price on a medical procedure? Or a radiology procedure? I have. It's next to impossible to get a straight answer from a provider on what the cost will be. The system does not enable us to shop around for the best provider at the best cost. The insurance companies take charge of this. It's what a Preferred Provider Organization (PPO) is all about. A network of providers agrees to sign on with the insurance company, providing their services to all plan members for a locked in rate. Basically, they make a deal. We are left out of the wheeling and dealing. Yes we are given free reign to choose our provider from the network of providers the insurance company says we can use. But if you want some other professional, the insurance is going to cover less of the bill or perhaps none at all.
      On the two opposing ends of the spectrum, millionaires can afford not to carry medical insurance. Low-income families are forced to use Medicaid with even less providers available for them to choose from. The elderly have Medicare. But, both Medicaid and Medicare strain our government in ways that can bankrupt  the tax system. I suppose this is a whole 'nother fish to fry.
     So where does that leave us? I would like to see the system open to free enterprise. I would like doctors and hospitals to compete to provide excellent service at reasonable costs. I would like the free choice to choose any doctor I want, to call ahead and know what he/she charges, and to be able to pay my bill. As it stands now, I have no idea what our family physician charges for an office visit. I never see a bill. I pay my $25 co-pay and that's the end of it. All nice and tidy and cheap it seems. But that's the problem! I'm left out of the equation. Who knows what she charges and how that amount drives up the cost of medical insurance. (By the way, I like our doctor a lot.) We had a "specialist" "run some tests" last year. I would never have known what tests he ran or how much the bill was had I not phoned the hospital and asked for an itemized bill. It was $3000. That's exactly why my insurance premiums are what they are.
     I realize this problem is far too big and far too long in the making for any simple solution. I just wish a dialogue would open up among the experts to address the rising cost of health care, the rising cost of insurance and the very real inability for any American citizen to be able to afford it. I do not think the government should assign themselves this task. It should be left to the medical and financial experts to rack their brains and formulate a solution which would benefit all.
     My personal solution is to kick around the idea of purchasing a catastrophic health plan. We would cancel our medical insurance and pay as we go for any and all medical expenses. The insurance would be there only in the case of a real medical emergency or very high hospital bill. I need to look into this type of plan and the cost of premiums. I would genuinely like to know of anyone who insures their family this way and how it has worked out for you. I simply want to get off this crazy ride and take some control for ourselves.

Disclaimer : ) I'm no expert. I'm your average American citizen who is frustrated beyond measure.

Tottensea Landing by Dale C. Willard

    
     The Linnet's Tale sits on my bookshelf as one of my favorite jewels. Tottensea Landing is the newly released sequel which continues the adventures of the field mice of Tottensea Burrows. I was charmed by these books the moment I began to read them. Written about an intellectual little bunch of English mice living in a cottage garden, they are full of wit and playfulness. The highly literate cast of characters includes the mayor, a widow and her son, an adventurous merchant, and an inventor with three lovely daughters, who seem to have come straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. Many more dear little mice make up the town and are interwoven into the story.
     When introducing us to the characters in The Linnet's Tale, the author adds bits of "linguistic inventiveness" that tickle the senses. For example, in describing the naming of certain mice such as Warburton Nines Who Once Lifted a Cat, Willard explains the meritorious epigraphs in a name added to show respect. An epigraph that has nothing to do with any earned merit is called a distinguishing epigraph, as in a name like Opportune Baggs the Inventor. Such playfulness is taken in all seriousness as the story unfolds into tales of love and daring rescues.
     Tottensea Landing picks up where The Linnet's Tale left off and continues enchanting the reader with a new adventure. The cast of kind and generous field mice remains the same with the introduction of several new characters including some unsavory pirates. A bit of friction develops between the newcomers and one or two of the townsfolk, adding the age-old dichotomy of an upper and lower class system.
     The Tale opens with the arrival by boat of the Thatchett family to Tottensea Landing. They decide to stay a while, bringing their upper class status to the village. Things begin to go awry when, much to their chagrin, their son is smitten by the kitchen maid and invites her to a dinner party. About this same time, a mysterious and vicious shrew washes up on shore and is nursed back to health at the inn by the very same maid. What happens when these well-mannered little mice are faced with treachery? The result is an entertaining story!
     Although called, "A mouse story for grownups" I found myself wishing my children were still young and at home so I could read this aloud to them. Most definitely suited for grownups, I would also highly recommend both titles for any children who enjoy witty adventure. The story remains bright and positive even though there are sinister elements. These never come across as eerie or dark as many modern novels tend to do. One curious thing I noticed was my keen awareness that I was reading about mice. I'm not quite sure how the author does this, but it adds to the uniqueness of the story while remaining completely believable.
    As in The Linnet's Tale, Mr. Willard has given us a good, solid story interspersed with poetry and witty dialogue. Although it is not necessary to first read The Linnet's Tale, I would recommend setting yourself up properly and reading it first as an introduction to the cast of characters and the wonderful world of Tottensea. I am pleased to have this addition to my shelf of classic literature.

Vanishing of the Bees

I've been aware of the honey bee mystery for some time. Most of us have heard this story of how entire colonies of bees are disappearing without a trace. Named Colony Collapse Disorder or CCD, it would pique my curiosity for the moment, cause me to say, "Huh, wonder where they went?", and then I'd forget about it again.

Well, one of our daughters brought this movie to my attention. It's called, "Vanishing of the Bees".

I watched it today, hoping that I could finally know the answers to the mystery. It is a thorough documentary, beginning with the discovery of the missing colonies, one bee keeper's quest for answers, and a serious problem that is world wide in scope. I really didn't anticipate where the culprit(s) would be found and at first the movie surprised me in this respect. Now that I have given it some thought, I'm not surprised at all.

I'll give you more than a hint. SYSTEMIC PESTICIDES.

In a nutshell, this film tells us that the chemicals the E.P.A. approves for use as pesticides, particularly those that are systemic, along with genetically engineered crops will cause us to eventually pay the price for so-called"cheap food". What farmers used to grow at 75 bushels per acre they can now grow at 150 bushels per acre. At this rate, in twenty years it will be 300 bushels per acre. Quantity is viewed as success. But what does it do to the quality of those crops? And should whether it makes us sick be secondary?

The disappearance of the pollinators, such as the honey bees, stinging insects and bats, are an indicator that something is very wrong with the habitat. I liken this to the old habit of miners carrying a canary into the mines to give forewarning if a noxious gas is present. We should listen to the bees. As one commentater said, "It is an unmistakable sign that our food system is unsustainable."

I highly recommend the film. As usual when it comes to our food, it contained a lot of information that I was unaware of. There are many grassroots efforts that all of us can play a part in in remedying the situation. One of the organic bee keepers interviewed in the movie is from Floyd, VA. Just a hop, skip and a jump from here. One of the main things I took away from the movie, "Vote with your fork."

Wandering

I'm making my usual run this afternoon to pick up Tess from school. It's another blasted hot day so I turn the air up in the car. I make it barely a mile down the road when I encounter a tow truck stopped in the middle of the lane with another pick up truck stopped behind it . This is a dangerous section of road, steep and winding with no guardrails where the road drops off on one side into a deep, wooded ravine. There is nothing for me to do but stop. After a few minutes of waiting, the gentleman in the pickup gets out of his truck and speaks with the tow truck driver, who is standing in the road. They look perplexed. Then I see an older woman walking around as though searching for something in the road. Something about her looks clearly out of place. I put on my flashers and get out to see what's holding us up. Both men turn to me and the tow truck driver says the woman is lost and he can't help her. The older gentleman from the pick up looks equally stumped and turns to me as though looking for an answer. I'm confused because although this is odd, I figure it's a pretty simple task; just ask her some questions. I approach the woman and gently place my hand on her shoulder. "What's your name?" I say. Immediately I can tell something is very wrong because she answers me in gibberish. My heart sinks as I continue talking to her, recognizing the signs of Alzheimer's. Clearly, this woman is helpless.
A quick panic tries to rise up in me as realize this is way beyond any of we three drivers. I can also tell that the men are looking for me to come up with an answer, like I should know something they don't know. I'm trying to think quickly. "OK", I say, "I'll drive her down to the nursing home at the end of the road. Maybe she wandered away from there. If not, we can call the police from there." Nodding their heads in agreement, the men are pleased with my solution. The tow truck driver is in a hurry to get back on the road, and he leaves. As gently as possible, I explain to the woman that I'm going to help her find her home and I begin to guide her to my car. I notice she's wearing long, dark, polyester pants and a polyester, long-sleeved turtleneck; very warm clothing for this sweltering heat. She has leaf debris on her back and in her hair as though she's been in the woods. I get a strong scent of body odor, but that's not surprising given the heat and the way she's dressed. Her nails and hands are clean and well kept and a nice gold wedding ring is on her finger. Obviously she is cared for and loved by someone. As I begin to guide her toward my car, she gestures towards the woods and wants me to look. She speaks some real words mixed in with the gibberish. She makes me to understand that someone else is in the woods but they're afraid to come out. She begins searching the roadside again. I peer down the steep ravine and I see no sign of anyone. We can't go down there, I tell her. We'll have to get someone else to come back later to help us.
The pickup driver hasn't left. He's a neighbor I recognize and he follows us to my car. I gently guide the lady to be seated and I buckle her seat belt. The neighbor asks me if I'm sure I'm OK. I assure him that I'm fine, no problem. In my mind I'm saying a quick prayer that she doesn't panic or try to exit the car after it's moving. As we begin to pull away, I phone the school and ask them to please have Tess take the bus home. What began as a routine errand is no longer routine.
Driving down the road, the woman is quiet. Once or twice she seems to see something familiar out the window and says "I think..." or "No, not yet." I ask her a few questions again. What's your name? Were you in the woods long? Do you live nearby? Mostly she appears not to hear me. Suddenly, she blurts out, "The flowers are very pretty. All the pretty colors. Peonies..." She also tries to tell me something about, "Big, yellow...mowing...", then she is gone again. As we pull into the nursing home parking lot, I see my neighbor in the pickup is there. He asks again if I'm OK. "Yes, yes no problem", I say again. More to reassure myself than anyone else. I begin walking to the entrance and notice the woman hasn't gotten out of the car. Silly me. I assume she will automatically follow. I return to the car and open her door, guiding her out. I explain that we are stopping here for help, but I don't know if she hears or comprehends me.
Entering the cool lobby, I feel like we have found an oasis. I briefly explain myself to the receptionist, asking if the nursing home has had anyone wander away. Although the response is an immediate, "No!", I still feel relieved because there are professionals here who are ready to help me. While the receptionist phones the police, four nurses and a supervisor step in. They bombard the woman with questions and soon see this is of little help. I feel bad for the poor, lost woman. She clearly looks confused and frustrated at times. I ask her if she is thirsty and she nods. A cup of water refreshes her and she says, "Thank you." I guide her to a seat where we can wait for the police. A nurse decides to check her blood sugar, which turns out fine. She is able to tell us her and her husband's first name and we work to get a last name. After a while, the police phone back and say they have found her husband. He called them to report his wife missing. We now have her last name and her address!
When her husband arrives, we guide him to her and recognition lights up her face. She says laughingly, "Where were you?" It turns out she lives on this very road. We drove right past her house to get to the nursing home! She had managed to wander a mile from her home, uphill into the thickest part of our wooded road. I don't know if she stayed on the road for that mile or exactly what happened. When her husband comes in, he explains everything very matter-of-factly. She was mowing in the woods, ran out of gas and got lost. By now, a police officer arrives and asks to speak to the husband. I ask him if I'm needed here and he tells me I can go. I thank the nursing home staff for their help and drive back up the road toward home.
My physical role is done for this woman today. But on an emotional level, my thoughts go round and round. I reflect on how much went unspoken during this interchange between everyone involved. The tow truck driver whose few words told me he wanted nothing to do with this; the pick up driver whose face showed concern and bafflement; the nursing home staff who went into auto pilot, hovering over the woman, checking blood sugar, etc.; the husband who wanted to make us believe that everything was perfectly normal with his casual manner and light speech, (I think he was trying to convince himself that everything was normal too.); the husband's hesitancy to have the police involved; and finally to myself, who was scared stiff for having the responsibility to help a lost soul find her way home.
I recognize the symptoms of Alzheimer's because we've had two relatives who have suffered this disease. The jumbled speech, the consciousness that bubbles to the surface then disappears just as quickly, the increase in confusion when their environment changes, the signs of frustration with themselves for not being able to communicate a thought. Many times their physical health is not compromised at all and they are otherwise very healthy. To be perfectly honest, this disease frightens me. Maybe because it is a disease of the mind and it's sneaky. It takes intelligent, bright, successful people and robs them of their logical thought... and so much more.
Now, when I drive down my road, past #2204, I will be watching out for the lady with Alzheimer's. She has one more advocate to protect her. I admire her husband for his loyalty and protectiveness over his wife. I think about my marriage and the illnesses my husband and I might suffer one day. It's the part when "in sickness and in health" comes into play. But I sincerely pray it won't be Alzheimer's, or throat cancer or colon cancer, or a stroke, or...

Aaron Copland's Appalachian Spring

The Blue Ridge Mountains after a spring storm.

Appalachian Mountains in early autumn from the Devil's Marble Yard.

Winter view from McAffee's Knob on the Appalachian trail.

The kids on a winter hike at McAffee's Knob.

Copland:Appalachian Spring, performed by the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Leonard Bernstein. Easily identified as an American composition the moment you hear it, it is pure genius by Copland in his ability to capture the essence of these mountains from where it was actually written- Hollywood and Mexico!
The opening portion, Ballet for Martha, has always been my favorite. The music builds and swells, as buds in a forest of trees in the spring. When the French horns increase to practically fill the sky, I can barely contain my joy.
Copland wrote this score in 1943 as a ballet for choreographer and dancer, Martha Graham. Begun in Hollywood and completed in Mexico the following year, it was originally scored for 13 instruments. I prefer the full orchestra suite which dates from 1945. But what really amazes me is how the full landscape of Pennsylvania farmland and West Virginia mountains was captured by Copland from California and Mexico. Did Copland ever gaze onto the Appalachian landscape and jot down even a few notes? The penultimate section of the ballet is taken from a Shaker tune called, The Gift to Be Simple. A pretty song, it was sung as rounds by our children in grade school. This portion of the composition brings memories of the beautiful Shaker influence near our home in upstate New York, near Chatham. Across the border into Massachusetts is a Shaker village called, Hancock Shaker Village. Now a working museum, one can experience the simplistic living of the Shakers, view their unique furniture and round barn and soak up the gorgeous countryside of western Massachusetts.
Originally Copland didn't have a title for the composition and simply called it Ballet for Martha. It was Martha Graham who suggested Appalachian Spring after a section of poem by Hart Crane called, The Bridge. The lines go:

O Appalachian Spring! I gained the ledge;
Steep, inaccessible smile that eastward bends
And northward reaches in that violet wedge
Of Adirondacks!

Here I find another sentimental attachment to our beloved Adirondacks. Growing up in upstate New York, the Adirondacks were our summer playground. Camping on Lake George, riding the day cruises up and down the lake, exploring Fort Ticonderoga and picnicking on the grounds of the Saratoga State Park. As a young adult, I spent summer weekends visiting Steve's family's summer camp on Brant Lake. We hiked Pharoah Lake, where Steve and his brothers still hike with our children each summer. In the late 1980's, we bought our first home in Saratoga Springs, New York in the foothills of the Adirondacks. This allowed us to bond even closer with that area and begin raising our children with a love for the mountains.
So today, as I drive on errands here in Southwest Virginia, listening to Appalachian Spring, my thoughts wander aimlessly to all the beautiful memories of mountains near and far. I wonder why I am drawn to mountains and not oceans. I wonder about the stories I've heard of my ancestors and where they came from. I think perhaps they too had a love of mountain regions and it has passed down through blood to me. I will keep wondering and wandering the mountains, appreciating the beauty of God's creation and listening to Appalachian Spring for inspiration. Whatever Copland was thinking while he sat writing in Hollywood has been fulfilled miraculously for me in this music of the here and now.

Difficult Decision: Gunner is Sick

Our sweet puppy, Gunner is sick. He's eleven years old, but I still call him Puppy. Now, the decision of if andwhen to euthanize him lies in my hands.
He began to decline last year and we coaxed him back to health until two weeks ago when he stopped eating his kibble. A trip to the vet revealed nothing significant. All signs point to a blockage. Possibly cancer, possibly a foreign object.The next step would be exploratory surgery and MRIs running into hundreds and hundreds of dollars over the $470 we'd already spent. We could not afford to spend more. So, we made the decision to allow nature to take its course. I have been delaying nature a bit by preparing boiled hamburger mixed with cooked rice, pureed and fed in small multiple meals throughout the day.
So the decision of how long to nurse our puppy is up to me. I am his keeper, nurse and daytime friend. My husband is his cleaner-upper and the kids provide love.
I know that I attribute human traits onto our animals. I compare Gunner to a sickly old man. I am his caregiver and it is difficult to decide where my limit is for caring. My inclination is to go the distance, loving and coddling him until his last breath. But reality is much harsher. How long can I leave him to run errands, how long will my husband clean up dog vomit, how long until Gunner suffers, what IS his quality of life. Do I measure the quality of his life in tails wags? If so, there's a ton of life left in this sweet boy. He still follows me around, thumps his tail on the floor, sniffs the air outside and gets excited to see his leash. Dogs don't show pain the way people do. They don't call from their sickbed, moan for sips of water or tell us how badly it hurts. Instead, we have to read very subtle signs.
In my experiences, the end of life so rarely happens as in the movies. People slipping off expectantly in their sleep is a rare blessing. No, in my life, loved ones linger, cling to life and fight death to the end. We anguish over their pain and pray for God to quickly release them from it. But in today's medicine, loved ones are forced to decide when to "pull the plug". This decision is too big for me. I have made it before and I prefer not to be dealt this hand again. Not for humans or animals. I want God to make the life and death decisions for I am certainly not qualified. And yet, here I am again. When will Gunner die?
Our kind vet answered my questions about how to make this decision. While warning that it is a personal choice, she helped me look for signs of "quality of life" in our dog. Explained how to keep him nourished and comfortable. But still, the decision is mine.
For now, I take it one day at a time. As long as I can feed him and watch over him, his death sentence is commuted for one more day. I pray for signs that will make the decision definite, easier. But each day, I live with a lump in my throat, loving this puppy and the memories he has given us. He takes with him our daughter's childhood, for they grew up with this puppy and now they are young women. He is a kind and faithful friend who never asked for anything and gave so much in return.
I know in the end, I will still whisper, "I'm sorry".

In Memory of My Father, Charles Giacomino, WWII 551st Parachute Infantry Battalion

      My father died four years ago on May 27th, 2005. It seemed fitting that he passed away on a Memorial Day weekend. It was as though he had chosen this time to return to his buddies from the war who had already passed on.
     Throughout my childhood I were reminded of his war experience. Never by words or stories, but by a multitude of artifacts lining the walls of our basement. There were also framed photographs and old scrapbooks of soldiers and foreign places. He kept a trunk full of uniforms in mothballs. It was quietly tucked away in the basement, but it spoke volumes in its unassuming way. Curiosity would draw me to rummage through that trunk and marvel at the construction of the uniforms and one particular piece of slippery, camouflage fabric. I later learned that piece was parachute silk. When I was a teenager he let me have one of his jackets to wear. It was all the fad to wear army clothes and I was surprised when he let me wear it. There was an imposing Nazi flag on the basement wall, surrounded by guns mounted on wood. My favorite object was a wooden owl, hand carved by a German soldier. When I asked my father about the owl, he said it sat atop a flag pole. My third grade teacher was known for collecting owl objects and I recall being allowed to take my father's owl to school for show and tell. I never asked and he never told how he would have come about to have that owl. I suppose this basement room was a shrine of sorts. We treated it with respect, but never asked too much about it and never heard my father speak a single story of the war. I had always assumed it was because he had three daughters and he assumed we wouldn't be interested in such things. My mother was proud of him that he didn't speak of it. War was too big, too personal, certainly too painful to put into words and good men didn't brag on things of war. Outwardly, my father wore the insignia of the 82nd Airborne division on his belt buckle. He also had a cap with the insignia patch sewn onto it and a small tag on his license plate with this same insignia. I noticed when we were out in public, men would come up to him and shake his hand and my dad would get this look of pride and humility mixed together. And all of those years went by and I never really knew...
     I was recently given a book that my father owned titled, "The Left Corner of My Heart" by Dan Morgan. My brother-in-law, who has an interest in the history of war, had borrowed the book from my father. He told me it chronicled the 551st Paratroop Battalion* and that it was an unbelievable story about my Dad's battalion. I was supposed to pass it along to my husband who wanted to read it. Instead, I read it myself. At the same time, I found an old scrapbook of my father's that I had never seen before. The scrapbook and Dan Morgan's book together have given me a glimpse into my father's world during the years of 1942-1945. A time well before I was born, and yet a story that would once and for all show me who my father really was.
     I knew my father to be very quiet man. He was different from most of the Italian men I knew in our large family and circle of friends. He was a musician and played rhythm guitar in a band. He worked as a forklift driver by day, supporting my stay-at-home mom and we three daughters. We lived in a little 3 bedroom ranch in upstate New York, out in the country where my father could garden. He was very proud of his garden and loved to leave vegetables on the neighbor's door steps. My father was also health conscious before it was fashionable to be so. He ate yogurt, fresh vegetables and drank milk. He rarely drank alcohol except for a shot of anisette when he shoveled snow. He jogged up the road from work and lifted weights in the basement. If you wanted to snap his picture, he would first push up his sleeve and nonchalantly flex his arm muscles. (Maybe this was a little true-to-Italian form.) He didn't like to travel and would scowl during an entire road trip. He was happiest staying home, eating my mom's good cooking, gardening and playing his guitar. He left us daughters to my mother's hand and never, ever got involved in anyone else's business. Oh...and he was very handsome.
     I realize now that my father was also a soldier. He was a soldier for life. His experiences in the war shaped and formed the man he would always be. In reading the accounts of his company I realize that no one can experience what these men went through and not be changed for life. Of course, their personalities remain intact, but their view is filtered through the experience of war. I'm sure this remains true for any soldier, then and now. The fact that my father lived through this experience, to go on and marry and raise a family is close to a miracle.
     Even in paratrooper training there was much danger. From an account written by news reporter Jeff Holland, "On a cold, misty, moonless night in February 1944, several companies of paratroopers jumped from two dozen or more planes outside camp Mackall near Hoffman, N.C. as part of a training exercise to prepare them for assignments during WWII. But pilots had misjudged their location, and the paratroopers were released over Lake Kinney Cameron instead of over an open field. Forty-three men landed in the lake; eight men drowned." Their parachutes dragged them down and they each wore 120 pounds of equipment! The men spent all night searching for the eight missing men, finding seven within 24 hours and the eighth man, 4 days later. Some jumps were experimental, dropping with a different type of boot maybe, or at different altitudes. Two months after the tragic drownings, the battalion set sail for Africa and then on to Italy. On August 15, 1944, the 551st was dropped out over the French Riviera, part of the force spearheading the invasion of southern France. The battalion was next dropped five miles south of Draguignan, marching on to take the city. Of this my father has a photograph and I had always wondered what that word, Draguignan, meant. Now I learn that it was a place in France. The 551st paratroopers became the first Americans to enter Cannes and Nice, France. After reading this, I see the calling card in my father's scrapbook is from a Frenchman thanking my father for liberating them. The battalion then moved to the Maritime Alps, where it held a 45 mile front along the Franco-Italian border for two months. Winter moved in and the men were cold in only their jumpsuits. From this position, the battalion kept the German army off the flank of the U.S. army. Then the 551st returned to northern France for another jump. This time they were called to the town of Rochlinval, which they took, and fought in the "Battle of the Bulge". In this battle, within five days time, the battalion was reduced from 800 men to around 100 men. My father survived. The army deactivated the battalion and incorporated the remaining men into the 82nd Airborne Division where they served for the remainder of the war.
     It's easy to ignore dates and places, rattled off as in any history book. I've heard of the Battle of the Bulge dozens of times and never gave it a thought. But in reading "The Left Corner of My Heart" I see men's names, photographs, what they ate, who was wounded or killed. They write of bartering cigarettes or parachute silk with the locals for food, drinking wine and sleeping, as my dad once told me, on top of a piano. I touch the calling card, the owl, the parachute silk and it all becomes so real to me. On more than one occasion I am reduced to tears when I realize just what these brave men were doing. And even more so, to realize this was my dad! How could I have been such a crappy teenager to him?! How selfish I was, too blinded by myself to truly see through the generational gap; to see my parents as people.
     I have not finished reading this volume of Dan Morgan's book. It is 548 pages long. I know more tears will flow as I get to know my dad through his experiences before I was born. The horrors of war, the bravery of the soldiers...I know I will love him more, appreciate him more. I wish I could reach across the chasm of death to tell him I understand now. I am consoled to know that he is laid to rest among thousands of fellow veterans at the Saratoga National Cemetery. The gun salute and the the honor bestowed on him would make him proud.

*  After researching my father's service in the war, I found that he began in the 82nd Airborne division and was later transferred to the 551st Airborne Battalion. I am not sure why he wore the 82nd Airborne patches and not the 551st, but he owned more of those and the 551st memorabilia are extremely scarce.
** Several years after writing this, we sold my parents' house. The new owner (one of my cousins) discovered murals that my father had painted on the basement walls. They are murals of paratroopers and bombs dropping on the European countryside. Photos of these murals can be seen here: images-from-the-mind-of-a-paratrooper