TWELVE YEARS PASS
Written by Marilyn Duncan – Buck
September 2006
Twelve years have passed.
At times moving fast -
then slowing down to the
movements of a snail.
Each day begins, and then it ends.
Moments with you I spend,
remembering the lessons
you taught and explained
along the way.
Swirling winds bring your words
of wisdom and knowledge - hard lessons
learned - you taught me
to listen so carefully to every howl.
The cool crisp air of fall brings a chill.
I reach for a wrap -
but you are there with arms opened wide
the warmth of your hugs has not faded.
Rain is falling now a new rainbow waits.
Your artistic eyes caught the vivid colors
on your palette, and with each stroke, your
brush reflected your vision.
The beauty of the view you shared for
others to see.
Your strong will to live life to
it’s fullest – has been passed on.
All that remember, watched the
courageous battle within, as you
marched to glory in full uniform –
head held high!
As the rain fell that fall night 12 years past,
you gave your salute and marched off
to find a new land.
The tears of that night were real, but concealed
by the rain.
When daylight came and the rain stopped
eyes opened to a new day, alone and in dismay.
The rainbow appeared – first ever
bright, then graciously fading.
It was as if you were saying as you
traveled your new path.
“Today’s a new day, you will be fine.”
I smiled as I look to the heavens now,
knowing with each rainbow to come
your mark will be seen, your presence
will be known and you will continue to say
to all.
“Today’s a new day, and you will be fine.”
Thursday, November 11, 2010
MY HERO
MY HERO
Written by Marilyn Duncan – Buck
February 2003
In a matter of a few months I would see the spirit of a devoted soldier fight his last battle. Being raised in a military family I often took my father’s courage, strength, commitment, and devotion to his family and country for granted. My father protected us from any fears or concerns he may have been feeling, but I was about to witness it firsthand.
At the early age of 17, my father entered the Marine Corp. He enlisted so that he could help his divorced mother during the depression. He sent most of his small checks home to her to help feed and clothe his younger brothers and sisters. His service in the Marine Corp took him to the China Sea at the end of W.W. II where they fought the Japanese. He was part of what has come to be called a “China Marine”. After his Marine Corp stay was completed he joined the United States Army, going to OCS (Officer Candidate School) and was commissioned into the United States Army as a Second Lieutenant. His first duty station after OCS was in the Nevada desert. Some might think that would be a great station, but not so. He was in charge of a group of soldiers who would be located one mile from ground zero during the testing of the atomic bomb. Little did he know that this was one battle be would fight much later. My father was what some in the military called “a soldier’s soldier” or a “mustang” working his way up the ranks. His thirty year career took him too many places and into two more conflicts, the Korean War and Vietnam. His love of his country was such a humbling experience to witness. It gave me a pure in-depth respect for our country and those who proudly serve and defend it. I proudly wear the name “army brat”, as it has given me an education that can never be replaced.
On a cold mid-Missouri evening in February 1996, my life changed forever. I received a telephone call from my father. This was unusual, as he preferred face to face conversation. This stemmed from his days spent as a Commanding Officer in the Army. But tonight he used the telephone. “Sis,” he said. “I have some bad news.” My heart stopped, as I thought it was something about my mother. She had been critically ill the year before and we almost lost her. I was about to find out, it was not my mom but my father.
As I leaned up against the wall, as to hold myself up, he continued. He said that the next morning he would be entering the hospital for surgery and that I should be there. Before I could ask why, he said, “I have colon cancer.” I must have gone silent, my mind remembering this big strong solider, because I heard him say, “Are you there?” My heart was pounding so hard. We continued to talk for some time, as if it was our last. I told him I would be there. I sensed his fear for being alone.
The next day came too soon, I had to be there at 5:30 a.m. and it was 4:00 a.m. I seemed to be in a daze as I prepared myself. When I arrived at the hospital, many members of my extended family were entering the hospital. We all made our way to the waiting room, where family seemed to take over. This man who was about to have surgery was somewhat of a mentor to us all. He was respected and loved by all.
Before surgery, we all gathered around his bed, talking and praying. Although my father believed in God, I did not see how much he depended on God until his illness. As we finished praying, he was kissed and hugged by each person there. As they prepared to wheel him out of the room, he looked at each of us and said, “I will be fine, you all take care of each other, this is just another battle I will fight and win.” Somehow we believed him. His voice had a lot of authority in it when he spoke. Time seemed to creep by, and then we received the news we were not anticipating. It was not good. The cancer had spread very fast since diagnosis and there was little hope. His cancer spread from his colon to his liver and was attacking his brain.
During the next few months, my father tried everything, chemotherapy to radiation. He was fighting his “enemy” every step of the way. He was treating his cancer like the enemies he fought in W.W. II, Korean War and Vietnam, never retreating. It was during this time that we were to find out that the doctors felt my father’s cancer was caused by his direct exposure during the testing of the atomic bomb. Yes that was many many years before, but studies were done on those soldiers that witnessed that event and it was shown that many of those soldier’s that witnessed that event had developed these fast spreading cancers and died from them.
From February to September of that year his fight continued, until his enemy decided to really fight dirty. In September, his brain was completely taken over by the cancer and he began to have seizures. As the ambulance took him to the hospital, I took a good look at the man I considered my hero. This would be his last hospital stay. I looked at the man who stood 10 feet tall to me, with broad shoulders, and a very sharp mind. He now looked like someone who had been in a concentration camp. The twinkle in his eye, firm touch and words of encouragement were gone.
During the next few weeks, my brother, mother and I would take turns staying by his side, never leaving him alone. My shift was 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every day, as I did not work. I drove the 25 miles each way daily to sit with my hero. When we would talk, I would listen to his war stories that I had heard my entire life. We would talk about my grandchildren, his great grandchildren and the apples of his eyes. He would tell me about the nurse who bathed him daily and how they would sing his favorite hymn, Amazing Grace. I never knew that was his favorite hymn. He would start to sing it and would fall asleep. I would sit there holding his hand and remembering my years with him. Wondering why my father did not let us see the sweet, gentle side of him.
On a cloudy day in late September, I began my usual drive to the hospital, not knowing it would be my last. As I entered the room I sensed something different. My father, who all along had refused any type of pain medication, had slipped into a coma. As he laid there, my mother kissed his hand and told him see would see him in the morning. I touched him and let him know I was there. He squeezed my finger, our little signal to each other. That evening about 9, the nurses came in to turn him. His hand was in mine, and then as they turned him, he clutched my hand and went lifeless. I had just felt the life of my father leave. I said out loud, “Daddy I love you.” He was gone, his battle was over and his enemy had won.
The next few days were a blur, a large military funeral with two honor guards, Marine Corp and United States Army, and hundreds of family and friends. As I sat at the cemetery, listening to the taps played from the far away bugler, the 21-gun salute, looking at those in uniform, I was reminded of my father. I clutched the flag that had draped my father’s casket and my thoughts went to all the battles this soldier had fought for his country and his undying love for it. He had never given up and never retreated from any of the battles. His courage, devotion, commitment and love of his country and his family had given him so much strength during this time. Yes, even at the end he was a “soldier’s soldier”.
Footnote: I wrote this while a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia.
Written by Marilyn Duncan – Buck
February 2003
In a matter of a few months I would see the spirit of a devoted soldier fight his last battle. Being raised in a military family I often took my father’s courage, strength, commitment, and devotion to his family and country for granted. My father protected us from any fears or concerns he may have been feeling, but I was about to witness it firsthand.
At the early age of 17, my father entered the Marine Corp. He enlisted so that he could help his divorced mother during the depression. He sent most of his small checks home to her to help feed and clothe his younger brothers and sisters. His service in the Marine Corp took him to the China Sea at the end of W.W. II where they fought the Japanese. He was part of what has come to be called a “China Marine”. After his Marine Corp stay was completed he joined the United States Army, going to OCS (Officer Candidate School) and was commissioned into the United States Army as a Second Lieutenant. His first duty station after OCS was in the Nevada desert. Some might think that would be a great station, but not so. He was in charge of a group of soldiers who would be located one mile from ground zero during the testing of the atomic bomb. Little did he know that this was one battle be would fight much later. My father was what some in the military called “a soldier’s soldier” or a “mustang” working his way up the ranks. His thirty year career took him too many places and into two more conflicts, the Korean War and Vietnam. His love of his country was such a humbling experience to witness. It gave me a pure in-depth respect for our country and those who proudly serve and defend it. I proudly wear the name “army brat”, as it has given me an education that can never be replaced.
On a cold mid-Missouri evening in February 1996, my life changed forever. I received a telephone call from my father. This was unusual, as he preferred face to face conversation. This stemmed from his days spent as a Commanding Officer in the Army. But tonight he used the telephone. “Sis,” he said. “I have some bad news.” My heart stopped, as I thought it was something about my mother. She had been critically ill the year before and we almost lost her. I was about to find out, it was not my mom but my father.
As I leaned up against the wall, as to hold myself up, he continued. He said that the next morning he would be entering the hospital for surgery and that I should be there. Before I could ask why, he said, “I have colon cancer.” I must have gone silent, my mind remembering this big strong solider, because I heard him say, “Are you there?” My heart was pounding so hard. We continued to talk for some time, as if it was our last. I told him I would be there. I sensed his fear for being alone.
The next day came too soon, I had to be there at 5:30 a.m. and it was 4:00 a.m. I seemed to be in a daze as I prepared myself. When I arrived at the hospital, many members of my extended family were entering the hospital. We all made our way to the waiting room, where family seemed to take over. This man who was about to have surgery was somewhat of a mentor to us all. He was respected and loved by all.
Before surgery, we all gathered around his bed, talking and praying. Although my father believed in God, I did not see how much he depended on God until his illness. As we finished praying, he was kissed and hugged by each person there. As they prepared to wheel him out of the room, he looked at each of us and said, “I will be fine, you all take care of each other, this is just another battle I will fight and win.” Somehow we believed him. His voice had a lot of authority in it when he spoke. Time seemed to creep by, and then we received the news we were not anticipating. It was not good. The cancer had spread very fast since diagnosis and there was little hope. His cancer spread from his colon to his liver and was attacking his brain.
During the next few months, my father tried everything, chemotherapy to radiation. He was fighting his “enemy” every step of the way. He was treating his cancer like the enemies he fought in W.W. II, Korean War and Vietnam, never retreating. It was during this time that we were to find out that the doctors felt my father’s cancer was caused by his direct exposure during the testing of the atomic bomb. Yes that was many many years before, but studies were done on those soldiers that witnessed that event and it was shown that many of those soldier’s that witnessed that event had developed these fast spreading cancers and died from them.
From February to September of that year his fight continued, until his enemy decided to really fight dirty. In September, his brain was completely taken over by the cancer and he began to have seizures. As the ambulance took him to the hospital, I took a good look at the man I considered my hero. This would be his last hospital stay. I looked at the man who stood 10 feet tall to me, with broad shoulders, and a very sharp mind. He now looked like someone who had been in a concentration camp. The twinkle in his eye, firm touch and words of encouragement were gone.
During the next few weeks, my brother, mother and I would take turns staying by his side, never leaving him alone. My shift was 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every day, as I did not work. I drove the 25 miles each way daily to sit with my hero. When we would talk, I would listen to his war stories that I had heard my entire life. We would talk about my grandchildren, his great grandchildren and the apples of his eyes. He would tell me about the nurse who bathed him daily and how they would sing his favorite hymn, Amazing Grace. I never knew that was his favorite hymn. He would start to sing it and would fall asleep. I would sit there holding his hand and remembering my years with him. Wondering why my father did not let us see the sweet, gentle side of him.
On a cloudy day in late September, I began my usual drive to the hospital, not knowing it would be my last. As I entered the room I sensed something different. My father, who all along had refused any type of pain medication, had slipped into a coma. As he laid there, my mother kissed his hand and told him see would see him in the morning. I touched him and let him know I was there. He squeezed my finger, our little signal to each other. That evening about 9, the nurses came in to turn him. His hand was in mine, and then as they turned him, he clutched my hand and went lifeless. I had just felt the life of my father leave. I said out loud, “Daddy I love you.” He was gone, his battle was over and his enemy had won.
The next few days were a blur, a large military funeral with two honor guards, Marine Corp and United States Army, and hundreds of family and friends. As I sat at the cemetery, listening to the taps played from the far away bugler, the 21-gun salute, looking at those in uniform, I was reminded of my father. I clutched the flag that had draped my father’s casket and my thoughts went to all the battles this soldier had fought for his country and his undying love for it. He had never given up and never retreated from any of the battles. His courage, devotion, commitment and love of his country and his family had given him so much strength during this time. Yes, even at the end he was a “soldier’s soldier”.
Footnote: I wrote this while a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia.
Monday, November 8, 2010
GEN. JOHN J. PERSHING - A MISSOURI SON
ROAD TRIP
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 2010
Traveling throughout Missouri, we are constantly seeking out those hidden sites of interest. This last weekend was no different. Our road trip took us up north in Missouri along Hwy. 36. We had originally planned the trip so that I could do some more research on Missouri County Courthouses, and also to look at possible sites to go quail and pheasant hunting. But we were pleased to find another gem of history on our journey! And it is so close to home.
We turned off Hwy. 36 at Hwy. 5 stopping briefly in Laclede, Missouri on our way to the county seat of Linn County, which is Linneus, Missouri. In Laclede we visited the boyhood home of General John J. Pershing.
General Pershing was born in Laclede, Missouri on September 13, 1860. He was born to John Fletcher Pershing and Ann Elizabeth Thompson. He had five siblings and attended school in Laclede. At that time school training was reserved for children of the prominent families of the community.
As we all know, General Pershing went on to accomplish a lot in his life through his military career. If you are interested in visiting this site, I highly recommend it. These little spots of history are scattered throughout our wonderful state of Missouri.
You might be surprised who comes from Missouri! I would suggest that you look up more information on General John J. Pershing, you will be impressed with his accomplishments!
Travel down the road.........
learn more about our history!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
FARMER'S MARKETS SOON TO BE IN SEASON
TIS THE SEASON – FARMERS MARKETS GEARING UP TO OPEN
Here we are once again, the start of the local farmers markets! Local farmers selling their crops of fantastic FRESH produce!!!!! Or let’s hope that they are selling THEIR fresh produce and not produce trucked in from other areas that they did not raise.
History tells us that farmers have sold their produce at farmers markets, roadside stands and local festivals for centuries. It was their way of earning a little extra income and dispensing of their abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables harvested on their farms.
There is nothing as frustrating as going to a market that is advertised as ALL PRODUCE LOCALLY GROWN BY VENDORS, only to find tomatoes grown in hot houses in Arkansas and watermelons (out of season locally) grown in Texas and Mexico., then trucked up here to be sold. Why go to a farmers market when you can find this type of produce in your local supermarkets?
I travel around the area on farmer’s market days seeing just how many are truly locally grown by local vendors markets. Sad reality is that most are not. I will not buy produce at a farmers market that has been brought in from somewhere else – not local. The reason is that the produce is not “fresh”. Most has been picked to early, and not ready for consumption (not ripe).
Many farmers markets attempt to give the consumer more choices by filling their booth spaces with who ever will pay the fees. I am not really one that looks for arts and crafts at markets either; they have their time and place.
The nuts and bolts of a good farmer’s market are the varieties of in season local produce. Markets need to be directed by a person knowledgeable and experienced in locally grown produce, not someone just off the street, or not educated in farmer’s markets. Add variety to it of organic produce, and you have a good market. By experience I mean someone who has been there and done that….a local producer. Knowledge in the field of agriculture is a plus.
Happy farmer’s market ventures to all!
Here we are once again, the start of the local farmers markets! Local farmers selling their crops of fantastic FRESH produce!!!!! Or let’s hope that they are selling THEIR fresh produce and not produce trucked in from other areas that they did not raise.
History tells us that farmers have sold their produce at farmers markets, roadside stands and local festivals for centuries. It was their way of earning a little extra income and dispensing of their abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables harvested on their farms.
There is nothing as frustrating as going to a market that is advertised as ALL PRODUCE LOCALLY GROWN BY VENDORS, only to find tomatoes grown in hot houses in Arkansas and watermelons (out of season locally) grown in Texas and Mexico., then trucked up here to be sold. Why go to a farmers market when you can find this type of produce in your local supermarkets?
I travel around the area on farmer’s market days seeing just how many are truly locally grown by local vendors markets. Sad reality is that most are not. I will not buy produce at a farmers market that has been brought in from somewhere else – not local. The reason is that the produce is not “fresh”. Most has been picked to early, and not ready for consumption (not ripe).
Many farmers markets attempt to give the consumer more choices by filling their booth spaces with who ever will pay the fees. I am not really one that looks for arts and crafts at markets either; they have their time and place.
The nuts and bolts of a good farmer’s market are the varieties of in season local produce. Markets need to be directed by a person knowledgeable and experienced in locally grown produce, not someone just off the street, or not educated in farmer’s markets. Add variety to it of organic produce, and you have a good market. By experience I mean someone who has been there and done that….a local producer. Knowledge in the field of agriculture is a plus.
Happy farmer’s market ventures to all!
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