"The Honor Flight," A #YA Short Story

 

Douglas Winslow Cooper and Brian Maher

Why were all the members of the Williams family leaving home at 7:15 that Saturday morning? The were headed toward the local airport to join a ceremony for World War II veterans who were going to be flown for a day trip to Washington, DC, an “Honor Flight” organized by community leaders to thank the vets for their service.

Mr. Williams, a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, wanted to honor fellow vets of all wars and had promised the town’s mayor that he and his family would be at the airport for the 8 a.m. ceremony. They left home early to be sure not to get caught in traffic and to arrive in time to lend a hand if help were needed.

The mayor greeted the Williamses warmly and introduced them to the local state senator, himself a veteran of the Second World War and the Korean War.

Rick said, “Dad, I didn’t know the state senator also knew you.”

“Yes, he has given the Fire Department some help on a couple of local projects. He seems to know everybody, and the mayor knows almost as many.”

Promptly at 8 a.m., the cavalcade arrived at the airport: a police car with flashing lights led the way, followed by dozens of motorcyclists, with group names like “Rolling Thunder” and “Biker Leathernecks.”

A hundred or so spectators, including the Williamses, lined the approach to the passenger entrance. A brass band made up of younger veterans played patriotic marching music.

“Rick, what’s that called?” asked Tess, pointing to a horn that wrapped around one of the band members.

“It’s a Sousaphone, a tuba for marching, named after John Philip Sousa, who composed lots of marches.” Rick would know, being a tuba player himself.

Mrs. Williams, a teacher who rarely missed an opportunity to teach, said to Tim, “Do you see something unusual about the band? What do all the instruments have in common?”

Tim thought. “They are all kinds of horns, only horns.”

“Right, dear, that’s why this kind of group is called a ‘brass band,’ as horns are often made of brass. The smallest are the trumpets and there are trombones and the largest, those two Sousaphones.”

The buses with the elderly vets stopped and the men got off slowly, often with help. They were almost all 90 years old or older. The busses had lifts to let the few who were in wheelchairs go from bus to street level. The crowd ranged in age from a few two-year olds to some in their nineties, and all ages in between, probably a few spouses, many friends, and lots of sons, daughters, grand-children and great-grandchildren…and all applauding the men as they slowly made their way into the airport. Applause and music marked their progress, with all of it being captured by amateur photography and filming.

Once inside, the vets were seated and the crowd continued to grow, reaching about a thousand. They were led in the Pledge of Allegiance, sang the “Star-Spangled Banner,” joined in prayer and heard several speakers thank the World War II veterans for their service, and acknowledge the service of the other former military personnel and their families.

While returning home, the kids were asked by Mr. Williams what they learned from the trip.

“Those were very brave men,” said Tim.

“We owe them a lot,” added Tess.

“Our freedom didn’t come for free,” concluded Rick.

##

One of our 50 instructional short stories for school children.

"The Bigger They Are," a #YA Short Story

 

Douglas Winslow Cooper and Brian Maher

Near the end of their junior year, members of the junior class ran for president of the student government, to run the organization in the senior year. Rick’s friend Pete was running and was likely to win. At first, no other junior seemed willing to run, which made Rick think maybe he would try.

In each of the prior three years, Pete had been class president and Rick class vice-president. Not best friends, but good friends, both guys seemed satisfied with this. Rick had second thoughts now.

“Dad, I’m thinking of running against Pete for student government president. Do you think I should?”

“If it wouldn’t make an enemy of Pete, why not? You might even ask him.”

The next day, Rick did just that, and Pete said he did not mind at all, that it would make it more interesting. Rick was pleased, although he got the feeling that Pete was confident he would beat Rick easily.

Both guys were athletes, Rick a good player on the basketball team, Pete a star on the football team. Both were good students, though Rick was better. Both guys were popular, Pete somewhat more so than Rick. Both had roles in the Junior Play. Rick tooted the tuba in the band and Pete sang tenor in the chorus. Item by item, they were closely matched, although Pete’s history of being class president every year gave him an edge over Rick.

“Why do you want to run, Rick?” his mother asked him.

“”I’d like to be first this time, rather than second, and it would look good on my college applications. I do think I would be good at the job. I’m better organized and work somewhat harder. Also, it seems a shame not to have the election be a contest.”

An assembly was held, with both candidates giving short speeches, each offering a few suggestions for improvement of the student government organization. Rick used humor. Pete used charm. Both received warm applause.

Tess decided to help Rick, which he appreciated. She drew some posters with their campaign slogan, “Pick Rick,” and a list of his school activities and his proposals. Pete had posters, too, “Pete’s neat,“ not quite as well done, but not bad.

The morning of the election, Rick met the incoming students at the school front door, shaking hands, handing out “Pick Rick” fliers. Pete was nowhere to be found. In fact, Rick heard that Pete thought he would beat Rick without much effort. While some students thought Rick was taking the election too seriously, more thought it showed that he really wanted the position and would do a good job.

The election was held Thursday. At dinner that night, the family discussed it. The results would be announced the next day.

“Rick, you put in some extra effort, you ‘went the extra mile,’ in campaigning, and I think it will pay off,” his mother said, patting him on the shoulder. “They say, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’”

“Thanks, Mom.”

His father said, “We’ll see. Pete has been Big Man on Campus these past few years, class president each time, a football star, too. Maybe he has gotten over-confident.”

Friday morning, the announcement came over the school intercom, “The President of the Student Government Association for next year will be…Rick Williams.”

Many students, including Pete, congratulated Rick, who was elated.

Once home, Rick rushed to tell his parents the outcome. His dad smiled and said, “The saying is ‘the bigger they are…the harder they fall.’ Congratulations, champ.”

Rick’s mother hugged him but cautioned, “Don’t get too cocky, Rick, remember the Bible warning: ‘pride goeth before the fall.’”

##

One of our series of 50 instructional short stories for students. 

Ava Gardner's Daughter? No.

3 May 2014

Letters Department
Wallkill Valley Times
300 Stony Brook Court
Newburgh, NY 12550


Ava Gardner’s Daughter?

The Wallkill Valley Times [November 7, 2012] covered the story of my co-author’s belief that she is movie queen Ava Gardner’s unacknowledged daughter. One goal of our book was to obtain cooperation from a member of the Gardner family in having DNA testing done to substantiate this belief.

In connection with a symposium held this April by the Ava Gardner Museum and Trust, DNA comparison was made between a sample provided by my co-author and one provided by an Ava Gardner nephew. To our utter surprise, the testing showed no match. We had agreed to withdraw our book [Ava Gardner’s Daughter?] if there were no match, and we have.

My co-author is seeking help in determining why her birth record was sealed when she was fifteen and why attempts to unseal it have been rebuffed by the courts. These two facts are not in doubt.

From this experience, I learned that the combination of “eyewitness testimony” and circumstantial evidence, while persuasive, can lead to erroneous conclusions, something already well understood by police, detectives, lawyers, and others involved in the criminal justice system.

Ava Gardner, who lived a glamorous, successful, adventurous, and often-admirable life, deserves to have this cleared up. We apologize.     


Sincerely,


Douglas Winslow Cooper, Ph.D.
 douglas@tingandi.com

May Day - By Their Fruits You Shall Know Them

Recently, letters to the Wallkill Valley Times discussed the attitude that should be taken toward people like Pete Seeger, leftist political activist and musician who died this January, people who were sympathetic in one sense or another to Communism. We rightly condemn those sympathetic to Nazism and totalitarianism of various forms and shun even those favoring somewhat less odious practices. Choices have consequences.

In the scholarly Black Book of Communism: Crimes, Terror, Repression [originally published in France in 1997], the death toll from this ideology is estimated to have been 85-100 million, including 25 million in Russia, 65 million in China, eclipsing a “mere” 2 million in Cambodia‘s killing fields. I am not sure whether it includes the over 5 million Ukrainians killed by the program of deliberate mass starvation undertaken to break the resistance to collectivization of the independent farmers, the kulaks. It does not include the loss of life due to Communist China’s enforcement of a “one-child” policy.

The joy of the people finally released from Communist rule twenty-five years ago speaks volumes about such governments. Those in America who wanted to know the truth about life under Communism could do so through the works of Solzhenitsyn, Djilas, Conquest, Medvedev, et al. Except for the elite, such countries are prisons.

As the Venona papers documenting Communist infiltration and spying activities here in America demonstrated: Communists in the U.S. were not imaginary “witches,” but real people, who– among other things– helped the U.S.S.R. obtain the technical expertise to build the atomic bombs and the hydrogen bombs that placed the West at risk of being devastated in a nuclear war. Their political influence was also often used against America’s interests.

May 1^st, celebrated by the Communists as “May Day” and by some of the rest of us as a day honoring workers, is a good day to reconsider Marxism, which sounds appealing to some, and judge it by its fruits, not its slogans. It has been proposed to have this day be used to recognize the victims of Communism.

Decades ago, I would have rather lived in West Germany than Communist East Germany before the Wall came down. Today, I would rather live in South Korea than Communist North Korea, wouldn’t you?

Sincerely,

　

Douglas Winslow Cooper, Ph.D.

douglas@tingandi.com

"Tess Reads DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL"

 

Douglas Winslow Cooper and Brian Maher

“What are you reading, Tess?” Rick asked.

“Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank.”

“I’ve heard about it. Never read it. She was about your age when her family spent two years hiding from the Nazis during World War II in a secret little annex to an office building.”

“Right, Rick. The Dutch people helped them hide, with another family, the Van Daans.

“I can’t imagine it.”

“The book makes it real. She writes to her ‘Dear Kitty,’ about her life, her hopes, her problems, her opinions. She isn’t always nice, but she seems honest. I would have liked her.”

“What happened to her?” Rick asked.

“The family was betrayed, sent to concentration camps, and all but the father died there. When he came back to where they had hidden, he found Anne’s diary. He published a famous version of her diary, keeping some things private.”

“Did she have thoughts a lot like your own?”

“Yes. That’s what made it especially interesting for me. The revised new edition we read has a lot about her friends, her interest in boys, and about some friction with her family and the people she was hiding out with.”

“Do you think I would like it?”

“Probably not, although it is a classic. More of a girl-thing.”

Rick was quiet for a minute or two. “Sad story. Terrible the way it turns out. I remember that she wrote, ‘Paper is patient,’ suggesting her annoyances with those who were not patient. Do you have a diary?”

“Yes, but I keep it locked up and hidden. It’s personal.”

“Are you ever going to let me read yours?”

“No way. Keep out!”

“Somehow, guys rarely have diaries. I wonder why not.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know what Anne Frank meant by ‘Paper is patient’?”

“Yes. I know that when I write in my own diary, I don’t feel rushed. It listens to me patiently. I can say what I mean. It doesn’t judge me. I can write frankly.”

“Anne Frankly?” Rick couldn’t resist the pun.

“Right.” Tess rolled her eyes.

####

One of our series of fifty short, instructional stories for "middle-grade readers."

Our Last Year Together? Cornell, 1963-64

TINA’S SOPHOMORE YEAR, MY SENIOR YEAR, 1963– 64



Forbidding Mourning

I have saved all Tina’s letters to me, as she has saved the Chanel No. 5 perfumed powder I gave her almost fifty years ago. More foreshadowing?

We knew we might only have our three semesters at Cornell to be together. Near the end of the second of these, that fall semester, for my birthday in December, 1963, she wrote:

Dearest Doug,
You asked me what I would think of these sixteen months a few years from now. My reply –now, after one year, after fifty years:
[She then quoted much of John Donne’s “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning,” including the following lines]
Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That ourselves know not what it is,
Interassured of the mind,
Care less eyes, lips, and hands to miss.”
Happy birthday, darling.
Love, Tina

Donne’s “Valediction” is a favorite of mine, but a poem I haven’t read for many years. I recently found my copy of Donne’s collected poetry. “Valediction” is there among scores of others, including some other favorites of mine, but its page was the only dog-eared one. I had read it to Tina at our wedding in June of 1984.

Toward the middle of the poem, Donne likens the connection between separated lovers’ souls to “gold to airy thinness beat.” The thin gold foil may lengthen and attenuate, but it never breaks apart. He ends with the metaphor of a circle-drawing compass, with its moving foot representing the lover who must travel away, while the central “fixed foot” always leans and “hearkens after it.” The poem ends, in our case prophetically,

Thy firmness makes my circle just,


And makes me end where I begun.
As Helen Keller wrote: “What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we have loved deeply becomes a part of us.”


Phi Epsilon Pi

I have on my bedroom bookcase a group photograph labeled “Phi Epsilon Pi Spring Weekend May 1964.” Among two-score college students in various stages of inebriation, Tina and I are present, dressed somewhat more formally than the average. Tina is in a Chinese high-collared dress, and I am in a white shirt and tie, the tie thrown over my shoulder, in an attempt to look less formal. We are obviously happy, even though we were due to be separated within a month.

We were at Phi Ep through the hospitality of the fraternity brothers. During freshman year, the fraternities and sororities “rush” the newcomers, inviting a selected subset to their houses to hear why they should join, “pledge” the group, then selecting, from those still interested, the students they would invite to join.

I think there were fifty-odd such organizations at Cornell. So far, so good. Not so good was that they were fairly distinctly divided into Christian and Jewish houses, each perhaps having a token few of the other, “minority,” members. Phi Ep was almost wholly Jewish, as were my roommate at 5406 University Halls, Jerry Baker, and another friend and fellow debate-team member, Al Berkeley. Only a few fraternities showed an interest in me, and I preferred Phi Ep partly because this pair would be in it and partly because I did not want to pledge a non-Jewish fraternity, on principle. Quickly into the post-pledge period, I realized I had neither the money nor the interest in alcohol that would make joining appropriate. The fraternity brothers took my withdrawal graciously, and I attended an occasional party at Phi Ep, when no longer a member.


Why Not Marry?

Why didn’t Tina and I get engaged, in 1964, or even get married? Lately, half of Asian Americans (second generation or later generations) marry Caucasians. In 1964 such marriages were much rarer, if only because there were so few Asian Americans. In the 1960s, some states still had laws against interracial marriage, anti-miscegenation statutes. While the occasional stare did not bother us, we believed that our children would have “marginal man” status in America, not accepted fully by some members of either race. The racial mix might have produced the loveliness of a Nancy Kwan or a child with a combination of our personal strengths, but there was no guarantee.

We were 20 and 21 years of age, too young to marry with confidence, though a long engagement might have been feasible.

Both sets of parents were against such a pairing, for reasons ranging from the practical to the ethnocentric. Tina was an obedient Chinese daughter. I was less obedient, but I did value my parents’ wisdom and greater experience. A marriage would have caused much family discontent.

In this period in America, more so than today, interfaith or interracial marriage was often　discouraged. As Tina’s dear friend Deanne Gitner tells it (see more of her contribution in “Tributes”), a dutiful Jewish girl, too, was expected to find a Jewish man to marry:

　
Tina met Doug in her freshman year, but Tina told us (her corridor mates) that she needed to find a six-foot-tall man from China, from northern China, to keep her parents happy. We felt we understood her problem, as we were all told to find a Jewish boy and that our parents would give us trouble if we did not.
There were only two Asian women in our class in 1962, one of whom was Tina. Tina’s parents sent her away for her junior year to London to study and, probably, to get her away from Doug.

　
Another question troubled me: Would Tina and I have remained good to each other in the future if external forces became oppressive? I had read Orwell’s 1984 and was convinced and saddened by the protagonist’s capitulation: Winston loved Julia, but broke under torture. They were to continue with him or turn to her. “Do it to Julia,” he croaked. Love was not enough. It was too believable that one would blame the other if the conditions became very unpleasant. I’d like to think we wouldn’t succumb, but I was by no means sure.

If marriage to a successful Chinese professional who loved her would be better for Tina and eventually better for any children she would have, it would be selfish of me to stand in the way. Tina felt the same about me and my best interests. We left it that if neither had married someone else in five years, we would feel free to marry each other. I meant it. Tina suspected that this was a polite refusal. We had a communications failure.

As I have mentioned, Tina’s siblings, Gene and Irene are both married to Caucasians, as is Irene’s elder daughter. The more recent the marriage, the less the controversy it aroused, if any.

　

　


Tina’s Diary, June 1964

Tina twenty years later extracted the following from her diary, written at the time of our separation:


June 8, 1964
Can’t even begin to say what this year has meant to me–only, for now, that it has been the most wonderful, truly wonderful year of my life. I am a different person in many ways and have gone through experiences I never imagined would happen.
At present I am trying my best to alleviate the pain that fills my whole being: Doug and I parted last Saturday, after he met Mom and Dad, and he has not written yet. I know he thinks it is best, and rationally I think it is best. However, it is not easy to erase the memory of a person most dear....
He became my reason for being. He has influenced my thoughts and actions to a great degree. I have matured because of him and have learned so much .... It was the most beautiful thing–the most sincere, earnest, appreciative, trying, fulfilling, happiest experience....
The pain comes and goes. It is not as persistent as two days ago. It is a painful price that I gladly pay in memory of the past.
Whatever the outcome, I admire him most deeply–his spirit, his strength, his kindness. I will always. He has given me so much.
　
I had been Tina’s first love.

    ##


Excerpt from TING AND I: A Memoir of Love, Courage, and Devotion,
published in 2011 by Outskirts Press, available in paperback and ebook formats from Outskirts and from http://amazon.com

"Doing What Comes Naturally," a #Middlegrade Short Story

 

Douglas Winslow Cooper and Brian Maher

“Tim, how did the game go?” Eric asked his brother about the church-league basketball game Tim played in earlier that Saturday afternoon. Eric had refereed a fourth-and-fifth-grader game earlier, but didn’t ref the one his brother played in.

“We lost, by a point.”

“That’s too bad. Still, it was a close game, not a wipe-out. How did you do?”

“Not good. I played OK except for missing all four of my foul shots. If I made a couple, we would have won.”

“That’s a shame. The neat thing about foul shots is that you can become pretty good just with practice, and nobody can block your shot. You figure to get to shoot a few in most league games with a ref.”

“Yup.”

“Shall I show you what I was taught? I’m not as good as Tess, but I know how to do it.”

“OK.”

They got their ball and went to the small paved area with the basketball hoop that their dad had set up behind their house. The foul shot line was marked with a foot-long stripe of white paint. Rick took the ball and shot about ten foul shots, making more than he missed, but not a lot more.

“Tim, I’m only so-so at these, but I know what I am supposed to do. Put my feet an inch behind the line. Bounce the ball the same number of times every time. I do it three times. Take a deep breath. Bend my knees. Support the ball with my left hand. Keep my right arm with the elbow tucked in, pointing straight down. Exhale slowly. Unbend my knees, while pushing the ball toward the hoop with my fingers, not my palm. Like this.” Fortunately for Rick, this one went in.

“That’s a lot to remember.”

“Yes, and you have got to do the same set of things over and over, so it becomes like a habit. Our coach called it ‘muscle memory.’ Try it a few times.”

Tim worked with Rick for a dozen or so shots, making a few.

“I’m tired.”

“Sure. That’s enough for now, Tim. You did make a few, and I think you will continue to improve. As you grow, you will get stronger and that will make it easier, too.”

“Yup.”

Rick served as an assistant coach for Tim’s after-school soccer team. Tim was easily the best player on the team, and this was a good time to remind him of it.

“You and I and Tess all like to play basketball, but it is not my best sport and may not be yours. You’re the best player on your soccer team, better than either Tess or I was at your age, too. You may decide to focus more on your soccer skills when you get older. Some things just come more naturally to each of us than others.”

As time went on, Tim did become better at shooting free throws, though he did not become particularly good.

Tim continued to excel at soccer, though, and eventually became the star and captain of his high school soccer team. He took advantage his soccer-playing abilities, doing what came naturally.

##

One of our series of 50 short stories with messages.