Our plates were buttered and ready. Mama finished stirring the hot taffy and took it from the stove. Some of the hot sweet syrupy candy was poured into each dish. We had to wait until it was cool enough to work. I always managed to stick my buttered hands into the sticky goo while it was still too hot. Once I could get my hands in it without burning myself, I would start working the taffy.
almost ready to pour out
Salt Water Taffy is what Mama made. We would have people over to share our Taffy Pull. It was often the Youth Group in our church. I don’t think any of those kids knew about a Taffy Pull. Taffy was something they bought in the store twisted in waxed wrappers.
If anybody was walking by the house and looked through the window, they would have wondered at the sight. All hands were pulling taffy. The object was to pull and twist, put end to end and go at it again. Sometimes someone else would grab one end of the taffy to help pull and twist. We’d see how long we could stretch it before it broke. The taffy was a soft yellow color when it was first poured into our dishes. After it was worked for a while, it was almost white. My forearms and hands would be sore for a day or two. When it was all done, I wrapped my taffy in waxed paper, took it to my room and hid it in the nightstand drawer by my bed. One time I ate so much taffy I got sick. For weeks, I couldn’t even open the drawer because just the sight or smell of it turned my stomach.
When my kids were little, I decided we needed to have a Taffy Pull. We invited some people over, some well over my age, who had never even heard of a Taffy Pull. The plates were buttered, and I poured a little bit of hot taffy in each. It was fun to be able to pass along something from my childhood. It didn’t have quite the allure as when I was young. I could still see that wrapped up taffy stuck in my drawer! Maybe it’s time to have a Taffy Pull will the grandkids!
“I want to be just like you when I grow up.” You might think those are words a kid says to their mom or dad or grandparents. Actually, they are words I say to my short daughter even though she’s taller than me.
Heroes come in all sizes, shapes and ages. (In fact, my littlest grand-daughter is a hero because she brought life to a little old man for 3 years.) Sometimes they do great heroic deeds. Sometimes they are loud and brash. Sometimes they are quiet and reserved. My daughter is one of those quiet heroes. She doesn’t crash into a room with drama and demand attention. When she comes into a room, she brings a spirit of calmness and peace.
She is a wonderful wife and mama. She’s also magic. If the kids get into trouble, she takes them aside and whispers in their ear. I don’t know what she tells them, but when they return, they behave and aren’t even screaming or crying. I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s magic! She is resourceful, very frugal, creative, good cook, musician, carpenter, wood burner, drywaller, hard worker, always busy, teacher, outdoorsman, listener, counselor, seamstress, quilter, wonderful wife, patient, painter, caregiver, excellent mother, trusted friend, gardener, chicken whisperer, lawn manicurist, tractor driver, employee, can work at least three jobs at a time while juggling all those other things.
This gal can start up the tractor and plow her garden, build a fence for the chicken pen, pamper her seedlings for the garden bed, frame up a door, build a shelf or chair, install a sink and plumb it, lay out a nice meal, take care of kids and find time to do one of her regular jobs – all in the same day. You can give her a mitre saw or power tool and you would think she had been handed the greatest gift ever.
Though she can do all those things, and do them well, it is her personality and qualities that are most endearing. She is beautiful inside and out. As a kid, she was the one who loved the mangy old mutts and befriended those kids no one else would talk to or play with. She is kind, compassionate, loving, giving, forgiving, encouraging and the list goes on. I want to be just like her when I grow up. She’s my hero.
The sound of uneven footsteps coming down the long hallway echoed through the wing of the trauma unit. The steps stopped at the doorway of the corner room at the end of the corridor. A soft rap on the door was followed by the door being opened slowly. In walked a hero, a fellow veteran who had shared war stories with Daddy, he of Viet Nam and Daddy of WWII. There was something else unique about this man. He had one leg. He lost his other leg in a biplane accident.
Daddy roused out of his stupor to see a fellow veteran beside his bed standing on one leg and a metal rod with a shoe attached. He leaned lightly on the crook of his cane. “How are you doing, Robert?” He was the only person I knew, besides Daddy’s mother, to call him Robert. They chatted a bit and soon the sound of footsteps faded as Daddy’s visitor walked back down the hall.
I appreciated him coming to see Daddy, but it wasn’t until later that I realized the importance of his visit. My mother had just died as a result of an automobile accident. She was in the hospital for a few days but there was nothing that could be done to save her life. Though Daddy did not receive life threatening injuries, his health rapidly declined. Daddy was planning on checking out of life. He promised Mama he would take care of her until parted at death. Since she was gone, he thought his job was done. He simply gave up. Sometimes the battles take place in the mind.
When the one-legged hero walked through the door, Daddy was slapped in the face with his self-pity. There was a change in Daddy. Though he still had many more days in the hospital and rehabilitation, that day was a turning point. We still had many obstacles to overcome, but he had been given the gift of another chance. For over eleven years, we had Daddy with us, thanks to a one-legged hero.
Artillery shells screamed as they fell like rain. Some hit the ground but never exploded. Others burst without warning. The flat open fields near Flossdorf made the soldiers open targets for machine gun and rifle fire. Bullets sprayed the ground. Artillery was hidden behind a low hill that overlooked the beet field. The enemy aimed for the legs of the soldiers as they ran across the open fields. Some were hit. Caught in a barrage of fire, Lieutenant Lovell called for “Little One” to “get them to raise the artillery.” Pvt. Ward got the radio message through. The enemy unleashed everything they had. “Little One” was knocked to the ground by something that felt like a sledgehammer in his back. He fell back into the shell hole where his Lieutenant lay. The Lieutenant had been hit with the same blast. Pvt. Ward bandaged the Lieutenant’s legs the best he could. He reached for the boot that lay ten feet away. Part of the Lieutenant’s foot was still in it. Pvt. Ward stuck the rifle in the ground, bayonet down, so the medic was alerted that a soldier was down. He then gave the Lieutenant his sulfa pills and threw his raincoat over the bloody legs. He managed to dig the hole deeper then went for help. The word went down the line. Lieutenant Lovell was taken off the field that day but he did not survive the conflict.
Pvt. Ward heard another call from the beet field behind him. A soldier from F Company, Pvt. Leo Halash, was lying in the field. His helmet was sticking up among the beet tops. Every time he moved, a bullet whistled over his head. Pvt. Ward bellied his way to the wounded soldier. A bullet had torn a hole through the soldier’s leg. Pvt. Ward bandaged the wound and gave him his wound pills. He used a belt as a tourniquet and then dug into the ground for a trench deep enough to get the wounded soldier below the ground. Again, he jabbed the bayonet end of the rifle in the dirt to signal the medic. The trench wasn’t deep enough for two, so Pvt. Ward crawled away, hoping his helmet would deflect shots that came his way. He crawled sixty feet toward a voice that called to him from a foxhole. He slid into the hole with Robert Kendall who administered sulfa pills to Pvt. Ward, bandaged the hole in the back of his ribs, and covered him with a raincoat. Robert Kendall lost his life shortly after that action.
Robert Ward
Leo Halash
Pvt. Halash did survive. He spent countless days in hospitals fighting to keep his leg. For two and a half years, he was in VA hospitals. He steadfastly refused amputation and underwent numerous bone and skin grafts and various treatments. He kept his leg despite being stricken with osteomyelitis but walked with a limp and couldn’t bend his knee. Back home, he married and had seven children. A heart attack claimed his life in 1971 at the age of forty-six, but that’s not the end of the story.
Years later, in 2016, Robert Ward received a call from the Library of Congress asking permission to give his phone number to someone in the Halash family. They had found the story of the events of December 2, 1944 as told by Robert Ward. In no time at all, the call came. One of the sons of Leo Halash thanked him for saving his father’s life. Other calls came from other family members including the wife of Leo Halash. Soon a letter arrived from Mrs. Halash. Robert Ward said, “I didn’t do anything. The belt saved Leo’s life.” It was the soldier’s quick thinking, his passion for life, his willingness to sacrifice himself, love for his fellow man and his available hands that saved Leo Halash’s life. God placed him there that day.
Not long after that, Robert Ward spent some time in the hospital. He received a letter from the Halash family. When I handed it to him, he asked me to read it because his eyes were blurry. By the time I was done, he had silent tears sliding down his cheeks. He recounted the story of December 2, 1944 again. That time, he gave a fresh description of the incidents of that day, even telling how the enemy weapons were lined up low at the edge of the field. It was like he was seeing it all over again, adding descriptions I had never heard before. He showed me where Halash was wounded. He described the kit he carried with the bandages and pills and gave the step by step administration of those:
“I gave him his pills and I bandaged his wound. If I had not put the belt on his leg, he would have bled to death. But time was critical. If the tourniquet was on for too long, he would lose his leg. It had been raining so I was able to take the claw-looking tool and dig into the soft ground. I don’t remember the first time I saw Leo Halash, but I sure remember the last time. When it was all over I looked through the list of casualties and didn’t find his name listed among the dead. So I knew he survived.” He said, “For over seventy years I have had flashbacks on December 2. I see Frank Svoboda. I see Lieutenant Lovell lying on the ground – wounded – and his detached boot with his foot still in it. I see others who lost their lives. I see a soldier in the field and hear him call for help. I hear enemy fire all around.” A tear escaped and he continued, “But now I have been given a good flashback. After seventy years, I can now see life – that of Leo Halash. I thank God that I was there that day and that Leo survived and had a good family. That’s a good flashback!”
Pfc. Halash and Pfc. Ward were both recipients of the Purple Heart and Bronze Star. They also studied at Purdue University at the same time where they saw one another in passing, not knowing that their lives would cross paths so intimately on the battlefield or that their stories would be intertwined.
Some call my father a hero, and that he is. But I find other heroes in this story – those who gave their lives in the line of duty – those who administered aid to their fallen comrades – those who fought for our freedom. Another hero emerges as well. The family of Leo Halash is my hero. They brought closure and gave an old soldier peace after seventy years. For the first time since December 2, 1944, he did not have flashbacks on the anniversary date of the battle. Memories that rose from the ashes of loss and death were met with hope and a smile.
As kids, we probably all admired comic book superheroes. We may have even fantasized about being rescued in one of their stories. Superman wore a cape and saved the cities of the earth from annihilation. Wonder Woman ran super-fast and used her tiara as a boomerang to catch the bad guy. Spiderman hid his identity and shot webs from his wrist to entangle his enemy. Captain America had an indestructible shield and extraordinary strength. The Hulk was a mean green superpower machine, able to travel miles with one jump and breathe underwater. These heroes had the same goal in mind, to overthrow evil and balance the scales of justice.
A hero isn’t necessarily someone who rescues damsels in distress. Heroes are everyday people. They are often someone unassuming who we pass in the aisle of the store and not give them another thought. Every day heroes don’t wear capes. They don’t have a magic wand to wave and make all things right. Some are facing life’s hardships. Some are caregivers fighting against illnesses and diseases that claim body and mind. Some are young widows raising their children. These heroes don’t throw tiaras to knock the weapon from the hand of the obstacles in front of them. Their superpowers and weapons are love, compassion, kindness and perseverance.
I know heroes who have captured my admiration. A friend is caring for her husband who has Alzheimer’s. She awakens to a new world every day, never knowing if her husband will try to drive or wander away, or even if he knows her. Another friend is facing an overwhelming trial caring for her mother who is bedridden with ill health and mind. The toll is taken not just on the patient but more so on the caregiver. Another friend is a young widow with three teenage daughters. She has devoted her life to raising her girls. I watch in amazement as she maintains and teaches them life skills and gives them spiritual guidance in preparation for their future. These are just a few among many who have my utmost respect. I’m sure they have all questioned if they have made right choices, yet they made their decisions based on the need of the moment. They learn to laugh to keep from crying. They put on their “big girl panties”, dig in their heels and do what they must.
You may well be a hero to someone who needs a champion. Just an ounce of kindness toward someone can lift the weight of the world from their shoulders. A gentleman stopped by my desk one day to tell me the story of a young man who was his hero. The gentleman had every intention of taking his own life. He had pulled off the road in a remote location and contemplated his suicide when a young man stopped and began talking with him. He offered words of encouragement and prayed with the older man. That one simple act gave hope to someone who had nothing to live for. Years later, this gentleman still thanked his hero for saving his life.
You may not wear a cape and fly faster than a speeding bullet, but with just a single act of kindness you might just be someone’s hero.
“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
