AN APPLE FOR APHRODITE

 

By Linda Lee Greene

You could see that the three jealous goddesses were spoiling for a fight. The elaborately patterned marble floor of the grand hall of the temple almost shuddered under the weight of the war among them. “Husband! Need I remind you again that this is the night you will decree me as the most beautiful woman of the kingdom?” Zeus pulled his head away from his wife, Hera’s whisper, pretending not to have heard her. Without warning, a deep tremor of thunder harkened a lightning bolt that strobed through the space at the thrust of Zeus’ hand, snapping the guests to attention. Pitching forward on her throne next to his on the raised dais at the pivotal side of the room, Hera let loose an indelicate bray like a startled donkey. Zeus jerked his massive head in her direction and scowled his discontentment at her. He was weary of the adolescent competition among Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite. Hera tilted her head defiantly on her lovely neck and looked down her regal nose at Zeus, her capable hands smoothing the goatskin cloak that swathed the round proportions of her body. Although he was king of all the gods, Zeus knew better than to push Hera too far, for after all, as queen of the realm, she had an iron grip on the purse strings of the entire pantheon of gods and goddesses.

At the center of the grand hall, reminiscent of a diva surrounded by adoring fans at the backstage entrance of an amphitheater, Athena was glorious in her imposing stature, made even more commanding by the tall shield-shaped helmet on her head and the coat of mail that sheathed her powerful body shoulder to toe. Androgynous, intoxicating, the goddess drew to herself like a magnet an assembly of animated soldiers, artisans, and musicians. The group paid no heed to Zeus’ command, and the lofty marble walls echoed with their metallic clamor. Annoyed by the insubordination, Zeus shot to his feet and strode with fierce purpose on his mighty legs to Athena and her entourage. In an imitation of the Red Sea parting for Moses, Athena’s comrades silenced and backed off, making way for their master. Swiveling toward Zeus, Athena reached up and straightened the breastplate that shielded her torso, a large bronze plate stamped with a likeness of Medusa, the winged Greek priestess, whose venomous snakes in place of her hair appeared to writhe menacingly in the fever pitch of Athena’s flared temper. Zeus stopped short in his tracks and shifted his gaze away at once, wary of the Medusa Curse that might turn even him to stone.

A peal of voluptuous laughter from a far corner snatched Zeus’ mind in its sensual grasp. “Aphrodite,” Zeus asserted below his breath. Although a regular visitor to the temple, the whereabouts of the goddess was frequently a mystery to her contemporaries. Zeus thought of her as living in a different world—devoted only to rules of her own making, and giving quarter to her wanderlust. He was too often taken with concern about the purity of her virtue and frustrated by the impact of her romantic entanglements on her reputation. He had invited to the affair, Paris, a handsome young Trojan prince, who was visiting the kingdom on a mission of diplomacy. Zeus entertained the hope that Paris would capture Aphrodite’ affection and inspire her to settle down. Such a dynastic marriage would be a valuable political asset. Espying Paris only a few paces away, Zeus closed the distance between them and tapped the prince on the shoulder and took him in tow across the room. Time was fleeting and nigh for the introduction. The great god had gained word that Aphrodite had recently returned from a journey to Sparta, there to visit with her friend, Helen, and he was anxious to sound Aphrodite on her impressions of the place. He had thoughts of recruiting her to spy on Sparta through Helen. A bit of grownup responsibility couldn’t hurt Aphrodite in the least. Her perpetual toddler-like son, Cupid, the offspring of the heated liaison between herself and Ares, could benefit from some discipline, as well. Aphrodite taught Cupid nothing of the real world. Their heads were always in the clouds and their hearts aswoon with nothing but romance and love.

The progress of the god and the prince was interrupted by a loud scuffle at the entrance. “Eris! That goddess troublemaker! That infernal pain in my neck!” Zeus spat. “I made a point of making sure she was not invited. She sows nothing but discord and strife wherever she shows her sneering face!”

Eris struggled with the burly guards who held her by her arms. She squirmed and kicked and wailed like a banshee. “Free me, you brutes!” she screamed and then wriggled free. “Pox on this house, Zeus!” her acid tongue spewed. And then she pulled a glowing golden apple from beneath her garment and rolled it across the floor. As if steered perfectly by an unseen hand, it came to a stop at the exact tip of Zeus’ big right toe. She twirled triumphantly and disappeared into the night. Paris reached down and retrieved the apple. FOR THE FAIREST! was scrolled across its skin.

“I want nothing to do with this beauty contest set in place by my wife and Athena and Aphrodite. It will only bring trouble on this house. The Oracle told me as much this afternoon.” Zeus appealed to Paris, “Will you come to my aid and proclaim the winner, my Boy? I would cancel the whole thing, but Hera would never let me hear the end of it. Her rants are worse than the Oracle’s harried warnings. Never marry if you value your peace, my Boy!”

The magical apple pulsating in his palm, Paris trembled with concern over being wrangled into such a delicate situation. He opened his mouth to decline Zeus’ plea, but the words stuck in his throat at the touch of a soft and warm hand upon his arm. “Deem me the most beautiful and prize me with the golden apple. You have my promise that I will give you powers and riches beyond imagining,” Hera whispered seductively in his ear.

Athena edged a long and shapely leg against Paris’ thigh. Her mighty hand buried into Hera’s long hair, she yanked the queen away from Paris. “Choosing me will guarantee you glory and renown in war, Your Highness Prince Paris,” Athena assured the befuddled young man.

A swarm of pheromones wafted into Paris’ nostrils and set him dizzy on his feet. “Make way, Athena!” Aphrodite commanded. “That golden apple is mine! On my oath, my gift to Paris cannot be outmatched.” Aphrodite swept in and folded the naïve young man into her arms. His knees buckled and his head reeled in an emotional swirl. Aphrodite drew her luscious lips to his and kissed him. She pulled away and whispered, “Give the golden apple to me and in return I promise you the fairest female in all the world for your wife. No, not I, my Darling, but my friend, Helen.”

“Helen?”

“Wife of King Menelaus of Sparta! Is she not the fairest of us all?”

“Yes, but…”

“You must place the golden apple in my hand to show everyone that you favor me, and then I will take you to Helen.” Their long, sharp fingernails bared and dangerous, Hera and Athena closed in on the pair, but Zeus stepped in and held them back.

“You want me to willingly submit myself to the lap of the king of Sparta whose wife I am to steal? I can think of nothing more foolhardy and perilous. No, madam! I will return to the safety of Troy.”

“I and my minions, one of whom is the crafty Ulysses, assure your well-being. The lovely Helen is in Sparta, and there we must go. She is your destiny. All is fair in love and war, my Darling Boy.” The golden apple firmly in hand, Aphrodite steered Paris to the doorway.

And so, the universe wheeled a fatal cog toward the Trojan War, set in motion by Eris, that devil’s handmaiden, that natural destroyer, that orchestrator of humanity’s deadliest sins.  “Evil be thou my good…” Her spawn lives on—still.©

 

#Zeus, #Hera, #Athena, #Aphrodite, #Paris, #Eris, #GoldenApple, #AncientSparta, #AncientTroy, #KingMenelaus, #HelenofTroy, #TrojanWar, #GreekMythology, #RomanMythology, #Ulysses, #apples, #Covid-19

 

The above essay is a work of fiction inspired by elements of both Classical Greek and Classical Roman mythology stories.

                                                                                     

Grain-free, Sugar-free, Gluten-free Fried Apple Ring Pancakes

 

 

Ingredients – serves 4

·         1 cup (250 mL) almond flour

·         ¼ tsp (1 mL) salt

·         ¼ tsp (1 mL) baking soda

·         4 large eggs

·         1 tsp (5 mL) Pure Vanilla Extract

·         3 large apples

·         1 tsp (5 mL) cinnamon

·         a dash of nutmeg

·         a dash of cloves

·         ½ cup (125 mL) water

·         1 cup (250 mL) honey

·         1 tsp (5 mL) Pure Vanilla Extract

·         Olivio or other olive oil-based solid spread for frying

 

Instructions

1.      Mix almond flour, salt, and baking soda in a medium-sized bowl. Add eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves to the batter. If a thicker batter is desired, refrigerate for 15 minutes and add more almond flour.

2.      To make honey syrup, heat water in pot over medium heat. Add honey just before water boils and turn heat to low. Stir well, but do not boil. Remove from heat, stir in vanilla and let cool while finishing the rest of the recipe. Refrigerate leftover syrup.   

3.      Remove the core of peeled or unpeeled whole apples. Slice the apples into chunky rings.

4.      Add the Olivio (or its equivalent) to the non-stick sauté pan (iron skillet and iron griddle get too hot for this batter) and bring to medium-high heat until it melts. Remove from heat if you aren't ready to add the apple pancakes.

5.      Dip the apple rings into the batter until they are completely covered. Transfer to sauté pan. Spoon extra batter into the apple core holes.

6.      Flip once the pancakes are bubbly and golden brown on the bottom.

7.      Transfer to a serving plate and repeat until all the pancakes are made. For a low-sugar option, sprinkle sparingly with powdered sugar, or drizzle with honey syrup. Other delicious toppings are Yogurt or low-sugar ice cream or melted brie.

 

Note – Apples are relatively high in carbohydrates, so this is a recipe to serve as a special treat only once in a while. Freeze the extra batter for another day. Freezing extras and leftovers is a good practice during these days of Covid-19.

                                                                                

Multi-award-winning author, Linda Lee Greene’s novel, CRADLE OF THE SERPENT, which is a finalist in the 2018 AMERICAN FICTION AWARDS FOR CROSS-GENRE FICTION, is given 5 stars in a reader review that states: “This [novel] is primarily billed as a romance/relationship story but it holds much more including archaeology, Native American Indian history, and strong insights into the life-changing challenges posed by spinal cord injury. As such, it provides much food for thought and the detail underpinning the topics reveals a great deal of thorough research, which adds substantial credibility to the story. I also enjoyed the descriptions of America's natural landmarks and Native American customs, and astrology. The characters are well described and their emotions are palpable to reflect love, pain and despair. Highly recommended.”

 

Purchase Link for CRADLE OF THE SERPENT: goo.gl/i3UkAV 

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. 

 

THE NAVAJO CODE TALKERS

Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist

Late in the year of 2004 and while conducting research on Navajo Code Talkers, I found a range of material on the subject. An endorsement by Bookwatch of the book featured in this post states, “’THE NAVAJO CODE TALKERS’ (authored by Doris A. Paul) is the single most comprehensive account of the contribution of the Navajo Native Americans in World War II…Highly recommended!” Only a few of the code talkers are still with us. Sadly, the Navajo Nation is now one of the cruelest of Covid-19’s killing fields of the Western Hemisphere. This is emblematic of the history of the fate of America’s First People, and I can think of no darker stain on present-day American decency.

Because it is important to me to encourage the welfare of the beautiful indigenous people of my country, I include Native American characters in my books when appropriate, facets of my stories that showcase their histories, their cultures, and their priceless and immeasurable contributions to American life. My latest novel titled A CHANCE AT THE MOON, features as one of its main characters a Navajo rancher named Sam Whitehorse. His explanation of the code talkers is presented in the following excerpt of my novel:

Excerpt of

A CHANCE AT THE MOON

O

ver dinner of left-over mutton stew, fresh fry bread, ancient discolored platters of corn and squash from his own garden, a dinner sweetened with great pyramids of watermelon, also grown at his urging in loamed soil he had nurtured through the years, Sam Whitehorse was storytelling that blistering July evening. Koa Kalua’i and the ranch hands Jack Ray and Carl Mathers were so caught up in Sam’s recounting that savory chunks of lamb on their forks hung in mid-air for over-long spans of time. Acculturated by his Diné upbringing in the art of oral narrative, Sam was a natural and eager storyteller, and that night, with such a captive audience, he was in fine form. 

“Of course, we Navajos wasn’t the first code talkers in the U.S. military.” Sam spoke with authority, for he had become a student of the code talkers’ history, an endeavor inspired by his own military experiences. “It ain’t widely known, but fourteen of my Choctaw brothers of the Army’s Thirty-sixth Division was the original ones, all the way back in 1918 during the final offensive of World War I. It was in the Meusse-Argonne campaign against the Germans. During several battles in that operation, Pershing and his men was able to finally recover more than two hundred miles of French territory from the Germans, but fer a long while, the situation had been bleak fer our side because the American forces had been practically surrounded by the Germans. 

“The enemy was adept at breaking the American’s communication’s codes, and had tapped their telephone lines. American runners, who was sent out with messages between companies on the battle line was being captured right and left. It was a captain of one of them companies, while overhearing two Choctaws talking to each other in their own tongue, who got the idea to use them as communicators. He come up with a plan to station them fourteen Choctaws in different companies where they transmitted and translated radio messages and wrote field orders in their own language. The Germans was unable to decipher them codes. The tide of the battle turned in only seventy-two hours after that. That was what I’d describe as a spur-of-the-moment situation compared to the strictly organized and rehearsed programs among my Comanche and Navajo brothers that come later in World War II, but it was the first occurrence of Native Americans performing that task. There’s also been others, involving several tribes of American Indians.”

“I ain’t heard of any ones but the Navajo Code Talkers. They’s been in the news quite a bit here of late,” Jack replied, pouring himself a second cup of black coffee from the hand-me-down coffee pot, a charred and scarred, blue-veined enamel centerpiece holding court on the table.

Pushing back from the table and rubbing his stiff knees, Sam replied, “Just last month the five living veterans of the original twenty-nine Navajo Code Talkers in World War II, who actually developed the code, was presented with the Congressional Gold Medal. The remaining twenty-four was honored posthumously.” 

“He don’t like the word to git around, but since he was one of them Navajo Code Talkers who come after them first twenty-nine, Old Sam here’ll be atravelin’ to Washington, D.C. too, come November, and he’ll be receivin’ the Congressional Silver Medal,” Jack informed the others.

 “Ain’t too many of us around no-more. I surely wish the others had received this recognition before they passed on.”

“It is too often the case that veterans fail to receive the recognition and benefits they deserve. Look at what happened to the Viet Nam veterans, many of my fellow Hawaiians included,” Koa added.

“I served with lots of them Hawai’i boys in ‘Nam,” Jack interjected. “One o’ them boys, he played a slack key guitar. I ain’t never heard a guitar played thataway. It was real purty.”

“It’s called kī  hō  alu in my language. Spanish and Mexican cowboys brought the guitar to my islands back in the early eighteen hundreds, and the paniolo...that’s Hawaiian cowboys...picked it up and adapted the slack key tradition unique to Hawai’i.” Demonstrating the technique with his hands, Koa continued. “The way it is done is that some of the keys are left slack from the standard tuning, and the thumb plays the bass while the other fingers play the melody. Improvisation in a finger-pick style is important.”

“You play, do you, Koa?” Jack inquired, fascinated by the mysterious man who had become a regular visitor to the ranch.

“Oh, I turn a little tune here and there. I have a Keola Beamer CD out in my car. He is one of Hawai’i’s masters of the technique, if you would like to hear it sometime.”

 “Well, shore. That’d be right nice,” Jack replied, his head nodding in approval. “A lot of them Hawai’i boys over in Nam, theys names started with “k” like yourn and that guitar player you just mentioned. I never could git my tongue wrapped around them guy ‘ez names.” 

“It is a very simple language to master once you understand the basics of it. The entire Hawaiian alphabet contains only twelve letters...the same five vowels as in English, but only seven consonants: h, k, l, m, n, p, and w. It is a bit easier to memorize than the English alphabet. That lyrical sound you hear comes from words overflowing with vowels, but if you remember to pronounce each vowel separately rather than blending them to make a different sound as you do in English, you will pretty much be able to be understood,” Koa explained, his big fist all but smothering his coffee cup. “By comparison, the Navajo language is much more complex, isn’t it, Sam?”

“You got that right, Son. That’s why it was ideal for the code talking during the war.”

“How’d that code work, Sam? Wasn’t it kept top secret ‘til not too long ago?” Carl asked.

Sam replied with a nod of his head. “Yep, Carl, it was kept as highly classified material ‘til 1968. I imagine most folks thinks we just talked Navajo like them Choctaws and them other tribes talked their languages, but the Navajos didn’t use translations of their language. What they done was devised a code where Navajo words was used to substitute fer something else. Like a dive bomber in Navajo was ‘gini’ meaning chicken hawk, or fer mine sweeper we’d use ‘cha’ meaning beaver in Navajo, or report was ‘who-neh’ meaning got words. Then fer the alphabet, we’d use three or four different words fer each letter which kept redundancy from giving the code away. As Koa said, the complexity of the Navajo tongue made it the ideal language to use fer that purpose. The code never did git broke.”

“Ain’t no wonder. I hear’d tell it’s jist as hard to larn as English,” Jack interjected….© -Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist

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A CHANCE AT THE MOON purchase links:

https://www.amazon.com/CHANCE-AT-MOON-Betrayal-Murder-ebook/dp/B07Z44YN9X/  - EBOOK

https://www.amazon.com/CHANCE-AT-MOON-Betrayal-Murder/dp/169984402X/ - PAPERBACK

"Thank You for Your Service"

By Linda Lee Greene

Memorial Day, May 25, 2020

When commissioned to paint an image of Jesus, artist Leonardo da Vinci chose a young man as his model whose beautiful face was full of innocent light and love. Years later, the artist combed the streets of Florence in search of a man who appeared ugly, dark, and hateful enough to use for his model of Judas, the Great Betrayer of Jesus. Da Vinci found the perfect subject, and in response to his request of the man that he model for the painting, the man replied, “Don’t you recognize me, Maestro? Years ago, I was your model for your painting of Jesus.” One can only imagine the circumstances that befell da Vinci’s cross-starred model that had changed him so greatly, and it is a fitting metaphor of the profound impact that life, especially deeply traumatic life-circumstances, can have on people of every persuasion. This is especially true of our warriors in the armed forces.

World War II gripped the throat of humankind when I was born, and too soon afterwards, the Korean conflict spewed its never-ending pox upon the world, followed in my teen- and young-adult years by the Vietnam War. As I mothered my two babies, terrifying and shocking images of American boys and their allies, as well as innocents caught in the crossfire, being maimed and/or killed in that doomed Vietnam conflict flashed across the screen of my television. In current times, the slaughter rages on in the desecrated streets and countrysides of Afghanistan, Syria and other places, and again, we cringe in horror at the carnage on our monitors and screens. 

Idealistic, or angry, or desperate, or naïve, but nevertheless fresh-faced young people sign up for military service and soon discover that it is a far different experience than membership on a football squad or volleyball team. Like da Vinci’s model for his artwork, life in the form of World War II altered greatly the men and women of my parent’s generation, and their young brothers and sisters succumbed to a similar fate in the Korean War. Not enough can be, or has been, said about the horrific consequences sustained by our brave fighters in Vietnam. And today, as our lovely young guardians walk among us on prosthetic legs, or carry their babies in artificial arms, or cower homeless in shadowed corners lost irretrievably to their former selves and society, adrift in incurable brain injuries or post-traumatic stress disorders, let us pray for them; let us help them. Let us also honor the brave warriors who never made it back home. 

This year, let us pay a special tribute to our precious armed forces veterans who were taken from us by a silent enemy called Covid-19.©        

INSIDE THE TICKING MOMENTS OF A PANDEMIC – I

INSIDE THE TICKING MOMENTS OF A PANDEMIC – I – Linda Lee Greene, March 29, 2020, Columbus, Ohio, USA



This particular date of the 29^th of March holds much meaning for me. It would have been the 97^th birthday of my mother, if she were still alive. It also marks the sixth anniversary of the death of my father. My mind locks onto my parents this morning as in my peripheral senses the news on my television reports that globally over a half million souls are known to have been infected with a silent enemy termed as, “Coronavirus.” It is a virus that explodes in the human body as a grievous illness called “Covid-19.” With such a name, it should be a murderous alien being from outer space—but no! It is a wholly earthbound thing. There is no pointing the finger anywhere other than at us earthlings. Among the 600,000+ global citizens struck down with Covid-19, nearly 32,000 of them have died. The United States of America records the largest number on the planet of individuals known to be afflicted: approaching 134,000 at this hour, and among them, almost 2,400 deaths. The numbers rise by the millisecond.

On the summer evening in 1992 that my mother passed away, she was in her bedroom of her own home, and during all of the several months of her final illness, she was comforted minute-by-minute by loving family, friends, and hospice workers. The same is true of my father’s final days six years ago today. The grim reality is that if my parents were still here, they would be locked-down in self-isolation, and more than likely alone and terrified if they were sickened and then taken by the illness. I can think of little else sadder and more regrettable. Such an ending for my parents would haunt me until my own dying day. My heart breaks for my brothers and sisters across the world who are facing just that consequence.

The matter of whether or not people are surrounded by loved-ones or are alone and terrified during their transition from life to death is a glaring side issue of the killer pandemic that is the world’s current reality. Coronavirus is so highly contagious that it is necessary to maintain social distancing. Distancing from an infected patient is absolutely essential. The result is that the majority of persons who have lost, or will lose, their lives to Covid-19, have died alone and terrified. Such an outcome is so awful that it defies reason.

Our priorities are so out of sync with our greatest well-being. So much repairing needs to be done in every area of human life. I pray that the jobs of the new day following coronavirus are all about accomplishing the vital fixes.©          

JEEP: SHAPED THROUGH WORLDWIDE CRISIS

Perhaps the most surprising yet of the odd repertoire of imaginary characters who show up on my blog is a veteran of World War II. He is soon to celebrate his 100^th birthday, and he speaks to us today about his hunt for a genuine 1942 Willys Jeep MB, the vehicle he drove during his military tour, and the only birthday gift on his wish list. 

JEEP: SHAPED THROUGH WORLDWIDE CRISIS

By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist

“I had the good sense to wait until I was forty-two to get married and to marry a great gal twenty years my junior. Fifty-eight years ago, Estelle stood with me before our priest and promised to stick by me no matter what I threw at her. And believe me, I’ve put her through her paces over the years. And I suppose the last decade or so has been the toughest. The situation is that I lost my driving privileges coming on to twelve years ago, and Estelle has been driving me around ever since then. My eyes gave out on me. The Bureau of Motor Vehicles also says I no longer have the mental acuity to drive. I guess the fact that my 100^th birthday is just around the corner factors into it. Estelle said I’m a stubborn old coot and about blew a fuse when I told her the only thing I want for my birthday is a 1942 Willys Jeep MB—a genuine, old dinosaur like me that is battered and wacked, but still ticking.

            “I suppose most of you youngins never heard of Ernie Pyle, and you’re probably wondering what he has to do with anything—but I’m here to tell you about him. Ernie was a legend in his own time, and I was fortunate in that his time was also my time. He was a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and war correspondent during World War II, logging in stories about ordinary American soldiers for Scripps-Howard, an Ohio newspaper syndicate. His work was published in 400 daily and 300 weekly newspapers, which earned him millions of adoring readers. There wasn’t any war correspondent more popular than Ernie. He traveled right alongside what he termed the ‘dogface’ infantry soldiers, first in the European Theater of the war and finally in the Pacific Theater. He slept alongside them; ate the crummy C-rations alongside them; came down with the ‘trots’ and the ‘crud’ alongside them; risked enemy fire alongside them. Ernie was killed in action in Okinawa on April 18, 1945, only six days after the death of Franklin D. Roosevelt, our president. That was the hardest week of my life. FDR’s successor, President Harry S. Truman, said of Ernie upon his death, ‘No man in this war has so well told the story of the American fighting man as American fighting men wanted it told. He deserves the gratitude of all his countrymen.’

“Usually Ernie traveled on foot alongside his fighting comrades. But there were times he was scuffled from place to place in one type of military vehicle or another. And sometimes, it was with me in the Willys Jeep MB I drove during my tour in the Pacific Theater of the war. Ernie and I were buddies. Like me, Ernie was an Indiana farm boy—and also like me, he was the only child of plain people who never made it past the eighth grade. Ernie was a natural-born storyteller who carried his folksy roots into his folksy writing style. He carried his folksy roots into his friendship with me, too. He was 45 when I knew him. I was 25. I guess he was the big brother I never had, and I was the little brother he never had. I called him 'Pop.’ He called me ‘kid.’ Through grit and innate talent, Ernie had earned his college education and his remarkable career. He had dreams of writing the American story into old age, but fate had other plans for him. I miss him to this day.

“Not only did I cart around Ernie Pyle, but on various occasions I also had Generals MacArthur and Marshall and other big-wigs under the roof of my little vehicle. I like Ernie’s description of the Willys Jeep MB: ‘It did everything. It went everywhere. It was as faithful as a dog, as strong as a mule, and as agile as a goat. It constantly carried twice what it was designed for and still kept going.’ It is said of it that it became the GI’s best friend—second only to his rifle. Marshall called it, ‘America’s greatest contribution to modern warfare.’ As with so many World War II veterans, the war set the tone of my life. After the war, I opened a chauffeuring business in Indianapolis. Many types of vehicles have come and gone among my fleet, but I haven’t yet laid my hands on the one of my desire. Estelle understands now the reason I want a genuine Willys Jeep MB before I take my last breath. I want to run my palms along its fenders, to feel the vibration of its engine under its hood, to wrap my hands around its steering wheel, even if I won’t get to drive it. Yeah! I could just sit behind the steering wheel and pretend—I could bring back my days with Ernie, my friend and brother.

“President Roosevelt was always in the background of my early life, as were the struggles we faced because of the Great Depression. I managed to get through high school, but college was not for me. The momentous politics of those times was the last thing on my mind. It was jobs, cars, and girls, in that order for me. 1940 was the year I started paying attention to the world beyond my own narrow head. It was the year I turned twenty. In addition, the United States instituted the first peacetime military draft in its history then. As a result, hundreds of thousands of young men were conscripted to meet the country’s need to build-up its military. Uncle Sam didn’t get me until after I turned twenty-one the following year. FDR won an unprecedented third term as president in 1940. And I didn’t know it until I embarked on the journey to find a Jeep, but 1940 was also the year FDR, through the U.S. Army, solicited bids from 135 automakers to design a ¼ ton ‘light reconnaissance vehicle’ tailored to Army specifications. I was bowled over to learn that there were that many automakers back then, and was surprised that only Bantam, Willys, and Ford stepped up to the challenge. In the end, they worked together and developed the template for it. In a remarkable 75 days, Willys-Overland delivered the first 4x4 prototype, named the ‘1940 Willys Quad.’

“The second model was the 1941 Willys MA, termed as ‘The Lend-Lease Jeep Brand 4x4.’ The Lend-Lease portion of its branding referred to the program in which the United States supplied war materiel to the Allied countries at war in Europe. The Willys MA was shipped across the Atlantic, and for that reason, it was necessary for it to be lighter weight than the original version. In its struggle to meet the new weight specification of 2,160 pounds, Willys-Overland shortened bolts and installed lighter panels and removed some extraneous items.

             “The vehicle I drove, the 1941-1945 Willys Jeep MB, and the one I hope to find, was the third model. I call it the ‘fat lady’ of the line. Removed items on the earlier model were reinstalled, taking it approximately 400 pounds above the specification. The current Jeep automaker describes it best, I think:       

‘FORGED IN BATTLE’

‘It's the stuff of legend; the U.S. Army requested a vehicle—and drove off in a hero. The Willys MB, its spirit forged by the fire of combat and honed in the heat of battle, seared its way into the hearts of warriors fighting for freedom. Fierce emotional bonds often developed between a soldier and his "jeep" 4x4. The faithful MB earned a place in every GI's heart, in every area of combat, in every conceivable role.’[1]

            “The Willys Jeep MB earned a place in my heart. Finding one of them sitting in my driveway on the occasion of my 100^th birthday would be a great big happy blessing on my long life. And even more than that, this vehicle is a symbol to me of the fighting spirit of the American people when put against the ropes. In an example of true leadership of a type I haven’t witnessed since that time, President Roosevelt called upon American manufacturers to modify their product-lines and to get busy engineering war materials under a program called America’s “Arsenal of Democracy.” That undertaking won World War II as much as any other factor. The Jeep reminds me that together, and with the right kind of guidance and inspiration from our leaders, we Americans can do anything we put our hearts and minds to. It is what we do in times of national crisis!”©

Note: The above is a story of historical fiction wrapped around actual historical facts.

Images: A Willys Jeep MB; Ernie Pyle

Multi-award-winning author, Linda Lee Greene’s paperbacks and eBooks are available for purchase worldwide through Amazon.



Message from the author: In a spirit of public service, for a few days during this time of crisis in which the world is fighting an invisible enemy manifesting as Covid-19, I am placing one of my most popular novels on free status. Read with all my love. –Linda Lee Greene



FREE EBOOK - Saturday March 21, 2020 to Wednesday, March 25, 2020- download your FREE EBook of “GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS” – A novel of pure #Americana, of #inspirational historical fiction spanning the early to mid-twentieth century with emphasis on the Great Depression and World War II. It is a heartwarming and heroic family saga of faith, hope, love, and survival - #kindledeals #ASMSG #quarantineread.



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[1] https://www.jeep.com/history/1940s.html#quad