I MOURN! I MOURN!

 

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist

 

Lately it is hard to get out of bed in the morning, or out of the recliner during the day. This 65+ chronicler with underlying health conditions is familiar with this reality all too well. I know it is the same for many of you—you tell me it is so in your social media posts and phone calls. How could it be any other way? Even before the pandemic, loss was ever a part of our existence. But before the pandemic, we had ways of coping, methods we developed over the course of our experiences, approaches that allowed us some measure of control. We had tried and true actions, as well as psychological and spiritual tactics; we had church-buddies, and/or sports-buddies, and/or gym-buddies, and/or work-buddies, and/or buddies in other walks of life—we had work, hobbies, medications—we had parents, siblings, daughters, sons, grandchildren—we had people, people who wrapped us in their arms and made it all okay. But we don’t have access to our tactics anymore because there is an enemy out there that is impervious to the psychotherapist’s couch and the church’s pew. This enemy will snuff us out as readily in those hideouts as anywhere else. And worse, we don’t have our people anymore. If we know what’s good for our health and/or longevity, you, they, I, we, all of us now live in our separate cells of solitary confinement. It is a known fact that human beings do not do well for long periods without hugs whether of the physical, emotional, or spiritual kind. I haven’t had a physical hug from anyone, not from my children and grandchildren, or my sister and other family members, or from friends since the first week in March. That’s five whole months. Unless I am a sociopath, the disconnection makes for wretched days and questionable futures.

 

On the other hand, there are “essential workers” who would give their right arm for the privilege of riding out the pandemic, home alone, parked and with their feet hiked up in a cushy recliner. Foregoing hugs would be a nominal sacrifice for the assurance of protecting ones self and ones children and spouse and other loved-ones from the virus that they might bring home to them. The awful truth is that no-one is untouched by our current reality.      

 

On top of the loss of our tricks of behavior and of our people, we’ve lost our way of life and we don’t know if we’ll ever get it back; or if and when we do get it back, if we’ll like what we get—for it will be different. And the infuriating thing is that none of this is of our own choosing. It is now and will be then a thing thrust upon us, and independent Americans do not like having things thrust upon them. Below our sadness and loneliness is a boiling anger at such injustice. How dare this thing do this to us! We are Americans! This kind of thing does not happen to Americans! We have been taught that we can be and do anything we make up our minds to be and do. We’ve worked hard, kept our noses to the grindstone, did all the right things—we’ve spent our lifetimes creating our unique, beautiful, and wonderful selves—and now what? What do you mean that we have to wear masks? Can it really come down to these rules, to this emptiness—this uncertainty in this world that now lends little or even no credence at all to our desires and dreams? How unfair!

 

But then again, isn’t it about time that we Americans grow out of our tendency toward magical thinking? Life is not Disneyland; Pollyanna’s message is a dangerous one for our well-being.©

Linda Lee Greene's books are available for purchase at Amazon.com. 

 

A VIEW TO HEALTH CARE

OK, I admit it! I’m guilty! I’m guilty of using the sweet Kitty in the photo merely as an attention grabber. She has nothing to do with the subject on my mind this morning—and the subject is health care.



We American’s have been taught to believe that paying top dollar for a product translates into receiving top quality. But in the case of America’s health care system, this tenet does not hold true. Compared to many other countries, we pay the most but receive much less, not only in quality, but also in quantity. A further problem is that far too many Americans simply cannot afford health care coverage of any kind, or are in a position of having to choose between basic necessities such as food or a medical procedure.



I faced such a situation recently. For the last two years, my co-pay for one of my prescriptions has been $42.00. $42.00 is too much to pay as it is, but when I had it refilled a couple of days ago, my co-pay had gone up to $78.60. That $36.40 difference represents the amount I have to budget to cover my Columbia Gas bill every month. I have not received a corresponding raise in my income. This situation put me in the position of having heat in my little condo or having a medication my body needs. Luckily, I asked my pharmacist if he knew anything about GoodRx, a prescription plan I have seen promoted on TV that promises lower prescription costs. My pharmacist whipped out his cellphone, keyed it into the GoodRx web site, and got me the prescription for $43.60 through GoodRx.



Suffice to say that I have more to say about America’s broken health care system, but this morning, my message is to urge you to look into GoodRx, and similar programs, that promise to ease some of the burden of our exorbitant drug costs. -Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist, January 25, 2020

Linda Lee Greene's eBooks and paperbacks are available for purchase through Amazon.com     

NOW AND THEN WE HAVE TO SHOOT THE MULES

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.



As was his routine, Commanding Officer, Lieutenant General George Smith Patton, Jr. reviewed the troops the night before the July 21 – 23, 1943 offensive into Palermo, Sicily. He stopped right in front of me where I stood in formation and asked me my name and home state.

“Martin Gavin from Ohio, Sir,” I answered.

He looked me over good with those penetrating eyes of his and asked, “Is your mother there in Ohio, Private Gavin?”

“Yes, Sir!” I replied.

“Well, give her my regards in your next letter home. And tell her you’re working for the best damn ass-kicker in this man’s army.”

“Yes, Sir!” I repeated. The jury was still out in my mind as to whether or not I held him in such high esteem. He was all flash and ego, and I couldn’t help wondering if he was in it to bring glory on himself rather than victory over a heinous enemy of his country. An incident a day later decided it for me.

I think he picked me out of the line because the two of us stood eye to eye, and from a distance, we resembled each other. Like Patton, I was tall and my hair and eyebrows and eyelashes had bleached white from the relentless sun in that part of the world. I suspect he also detected by the overoptimistic thrust of my chin the remnants of my stubborn naïveté about the realities of war. I still believed in my bones that the poor SOB next to me might get killed, but not me! I would see absolutely in the next three days up close and personal that war kills—maybe even me, and not just men.

Our charge from the bottom to the top of Sicily took us over its challenging natural terrain in a 200 miles thrust. We broke through the enemy’s immediate front and rolled him back, accomplished by our forward Infantry and supporting tanks. In the mountains southwest of Palermo, the enemy engaged us again, but we drove him back with artillery fire and tanks. The Germans had dug treacherous pits along the sides of the roads concealed by chicken wire and dirt. At the place of each pit, they had strung wire entanglements across the roads in the hope our tanks would drive around them and crash into the roadside pits. But we were on to the enemy’s tricks. We stuck to the road and blasted through the wire entanglements.

All of a sudden, our long column of vehicles and equipment came to an abrupt halt as we approached a bridge that was our only access across a mean river. “WHAT THE F%#%!” the roar of hundreds of men went out. Our commander’s was the loudest of them all. From behind the steering wheel of my half-track in my position near the front of the column, I saw that a cart driven by an old Sicilian man and towed by two mules was parked square in the middle of the narrow bridge. The mules were lowered to their arses, unmoving. Patton jumped down from his Jeep at the front of the column as simultaneously the old Sicilian climbed down from his cart. They met at the heads of the stubborn mules. “GET THESE G#%&$#% MULES OFF THIS BRIDGE!” Patton bawled, his buttermilk face purple with rage, his burly left arm thrusting in the air, and the walking stick in his hand tracing threatening circles at the Sicilian.

 

The Sicilian babbled in Italian and waved his arms wildly, his head swinging back and forth on his shoulders. He grabbed the hackamore of the mule closest to him and pulled with all his strength. He pushed; he pulled; he begged. The mules would not move. In a flash, just like the Cisco Kid, Patton pulled his Colt .45 from his right-hip holster, took aim and shot one mule and then the other dead-center of their foreheads. The mules plopped over on their sides, dead as doornails. Tears sprang to the old Sicilian’s eyes and he bawled like a baby, his shoulders pumping up and down pathetically. Patton put his revolver back in its holster and ordered a cadre of his men to roll the carcasses over the side of the bridge to the deep of the water below. And he wasn’t finished. To stop the old man’s protestations, Patton struck him on his body with his walking stick. The man cowered and turned back to his cart where it was pushed to the side of the road, out of our way.

The knuckles of my hands were white from gripping the steering wheel of the half-track. Strong emotions swept over me like a pounding tide—first shock, and then anger, anger over the loss the poor old Sicilian incurred. “How would he ever replace his mules, his major source of livelihood and transport?” I asked myself. But in only a few seconds I understood what had really happened. This was the very reason George S. Patton was our leader. The mules and their powerless owner at that moment were the enemy. They set up a life and death situation, because the barrier they created not only blocked our advance but made of us sitting ducks for the enemy that was around us everywhere.

It was a big lesson in life I learned that day. A decision had to be made. There was no time to hem and haw over it. Shooting the obstinate mules and sweeping them out of our way was the expedient recourse, and the war, all wars, if nothing else are slave to expediency. It was an act on Patton’s part that added to the controversy that dogged him, but he won my mind that day, if not my heart. My heart—well, it just didn’t want to come along. It wanted to stay down there, cuddled in its soft, sweet greenness. That’s why I was a lowly private and prayed to stay that way.

The hair on the back of my head stood up under my helmet and I hunched low over the steering wheel of my half-track. I wanted to abandon my vehicle and take cover in the nearby bushes. The half-track saved my legs and feet, but put me too high in the enemy’s line of fire. I didn’t want to think or feel anymore. I wanted to get moving again. I wanted to go home.

It was nearing dark as we approached Palermo on day three of our advance. Patton received word that the city had fallen to our forward troops, and he elected to go in. The hills on each side of the long road we traveled were burning. We entered the town and the street was lined thick on both sides with people who shouted, “Down with Mussolini! Long live America!” The flowers and lemons and watermelons tossed at the forward troops in symbols of welcome, littered the street. The governor had skipped town, but we went on to capture two generals, both of whom were added to the close to ten thousand prisoners who were bagged during the course of our march. The scuttlebutt was that when Patton inspected the harbor the following morning, a group of prisoners held in the POW compound there stood up, saluted, and then cheered him.©

Image: Patton in his Jeep conferring with U.S. Army Lt. Col. Lyle Bernard, CO, 30^th Infantry Regiment, a prominent figure in the second daring amphibious landing behind enemy lines on Sicily’s north coast – July 23, 1943.

Note: the above essay is a work of historical fiction based on actual events.

Recommended reading: “War as I Knew It” by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. and “Max Corvo, OSS Italy, 1942 – 1945” by Max Corvo.

Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover at Amazon.com.