Nearly a year ago, I had the privilege to participate in the production of a video highlighting some of the history, heritage and heroes of my hometown – an experience I will never forget. While I am familiar with many of the stories, it was an opportunity for me to gain new perspectives, to learn things I didn’t know, to reacquaint myself with names and faces of the past, to make new connections, and to deepen my appreciation for family, friends and neighbors.

Throughout this incredible project, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to turn and say, “Do you remember when…?” and we’d take a moment to add our own personal accounts of the particular event in question, laugh, or sit in reverent silence and wipe a tear from our cheek. While we managed to secure nearly 70 minutes-worth of programming, there remain many untold stories. In fact, we could no doubt return and produce a few more volumes about our small, coal-mining town.

On this Memorial Day, I will visit the graveside of my grandparents, family, friends, and neighbors. I will see familiar names, recall fond memories and ask myself, “Do you remember when…?” I’ll think about those people, places, and times. I’ll laugh and I’ll wipe a tear from my eye. Unfortunately, there are things I won’t remember, only because I wasn’t around when they took place. I only “remember” because these are the stories passed down to us from the previous generations.

I wasn’t there with Private First Class Thomas Greene and his medical detachment as the US Army’s 89^th Division rolled into Germany only to discover the horrors and atrocities of hatred and evil carried out in those “camps.” I wasn’t there as his comrades were gunned down, anguishing in pain, gasping for their last breath, and calling out the name of their beloved as he bandaged their wounds and gave them their last ampule of morphine.

I wasn’t there with Paul Rhoades, who stayed behind to work the deep mines of west-central Pennsylvania to support the industrial efforts of a nation at war. I wasn’t there as he entered the mine looking for missing workers, pulling crushed bodies from the tons of coal and slate rock that fell from the mountains above and restoring the electrical system so the coal could be moved to produce steel, metals, and energy necessary to manufacture ammunition, artillery and planes.

I wasn’t there as Ethel Greene took her young daughter and moved to the family farm, awaiting her husband’s return from the European battlefields. I wasn’t there as she and her family worked from the dark, wee-morning hours until the late evenings, growing and processing their own food and preparing for the winter to come.

 I wasn’t there as Elizabeth Rhoades cared for her children, washed the laundry, stretched out the rations to make another meal, and patched the clothes for another day of wear. I wasn’t there when she wondered if her husband would survive the dangers of the earth below or if an illness would take her child.

Do I remember when…? No, but I do remember those who were part of a generation that was right for their time – just when America needed them the most. These were the ones who taught us the values of faith, patriotism, hard work, perseverance, and devotion. These were the faces of those who would sacrifice everything, so generations to come would owe nothing. These are the men and women who gave their very lives; sweat, tears, and blood, so we could know a brighter future. These are the memories I do not recall, but will forever remember.

©Copyright 2013 Scott Rhoades/Ivory Hill Studios

It was a cold, January night in the valley of coal. A fresh coating of snow covered the hills and glistened brightly in the light of the full moon, as tiny plumes of smoke wafted skyward from the chimneys in the valley below. For a moment, time stood still, as if the entire universe wanted me to know I was a part of something larger. The silence would have been deafening had it not been for the crunching and squeaking coming from beneath my partner’s boots. “Nice night, but it’s cold, and we have work to do,” he said, as he grasped my shoulder. I nodded, turned, and opened the door of the ambulance to retrieve a rescue bag and a bottle of oxygen.

Now there were numerous ways one could contribute to the needs of our small community. We had our share of non-profit organizations, religious charities, ethnic and social clubs, and the volunteer fire department or ambulance service. My father was a volunteer firefighter, but since my idea of adventure did not include imitating a roasted hot dog, I opted to invest my efforts as part of the local emergency medical squad.

3:00 A.M. calls weren’t uncommon, especially during the extremes of weather, and so here we were again. My partner and I made our way up the unshoveled walk and onto the front porch of a tiny home; an old company row house left over from the big mining era that swept through the valley decades earlier. We knocked at the door and let ourselves in, because everyone made themselves at home with Miss Annie Krinksy.

Annie Krinsky was an elderly lady, a retired elementary school teacher who never married and she was without a family. Her parents, John and Beulah, had immigrated to the United States in the 1920s and came to our town in search of what everyone else had come for – work! Her father was a coal miner, and her two brothers, John and Jack, soon joined him in the mines after completing the 8^th grade. While they labored to survive the Great Depression, they soon succumbed to the dangers of the earth below. Annie quit school and took a job at the local company store in order to keep the house where she and her mother would live out their days. After a long day at work, Annie would visit Sister Maria Theresa Coppelo, a local teacher who would tutor her for the purposes of obtaining a teaching certificate. Annie soon became a teacher.

Annie met us at the door and offered us the usual coffee and cookies. She was a frail woman, bent at the shoulders and joints. I looked at her hands in amazement and wondered how she could care for herself. The years of hard labor and coping had left a mark and while 3:00 A.M. calls weren’t uncommon, 3:00 A.M. calls to Annie Krinsky’s house usually meant one thing – she was lonely.

This wasn’t my first visit to Annie’s house. In fact, everyone on the rescue squad knew her by name and she knew them. Responding to an emergency call at Annie Krinsky’s was like visiting an old friend. She never had a real complaint. We would simply check her vital signs, call the doctor at the emergency room with report to get signed off, and then radio the dispatch of our availability while we stayed a few moments to chat.  Her house was amazing considering her condition; it was spotless and smelled of Pine-sol and Lemon Pledge. But there was one thing I will never forget about Annie’s home – someone had given her an artificial Christmas tree, and she never put it away. In fact, she would turn on the lights at any given time (even in July), and you could always see unopened packages underneath the tree.

I remember the last call to Annie Krinsky’s house. A neighbor had reported that she would not answer the door and called for help. Albert, the town police chief arrived and led us inside where we found her in her favorite rocking chair facing the Christmas tree. She was covered with a puffy, homemade quilt, but it could not keep her from the chilling arms that enveloped her body. Annie Krinsky had died.

It’s Christmas Eve, and as I look at our tree and the wrapped gifts underneath, I am reminded of Annie and her oddities. I’m not sure what happened to her home, her possessions, or to her tree. I am curious as to what and for whom those unopened packages were intended. I never asked, but I am saddened to think she had gifts to share that will never be known.

Perhaps you and I have unopened gifts under our Tree of Life; talents, abilities, and spiritual fruits all waiting to be consumed by a world in need. Perhaps we hold back because of fear, guilt, unforgiveness, or other circumstances that make the joy of giving seem like an impossible feat. During this Christmas, I hope you will resolve to empty your tree of unopened packages as I will. The world is waiting for us!

©Copyright 2011 Scott Rhoades/Ivory Hill Studios

*My life and experiences are real, but I have used artistic license in the telling of this story. Names, persons, and situations have been changed or combined with other personalities or events to offer you some perspectives of my life and community while protecting the identities of those involved.

It’s a crisp, frosty Thanksgiving Day here along the ridges of the great Allegheny Mountains. I for one have secured a cozy spot next to the fire where I can relax, sip from a mug of hot chocolate, and prepare to engage in holiday traditions passed on to me from generations past. The consumption of food, the celebration of parades,  the time spent with family and friends, and yes, even the watching of football have all woven a fabric into the festivities a national holiday. But to be honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for this day to begin.

I’ve had a difficult week wrestling with the entire concept of thankfulness. You see, it is not my desire merely or whimsically to “be thankful;”  I want desperately to “BE THANKFUL!” I want to know more than the definition, I want to know the experience. I want a heart overflowing with sincere and blatant gratitude.  I want to know what it means to recklessly abandon any sense of self reliance so I may savor the results of placing my faith and trust in the One who knows my tomorrows.

This morning I am reminded that perhaps the answer to my dilemma is right in front of me. As I search the scripture, it turns out the Apostle Paul’s First Thessalonians 5:18 message to the church is a memo addressed to my personal attention: “Dear Scott, In EVERYTHING give thanks. Not just for the all the goodness you will celebrate today or even in your lifetime, but for the times of crisis, trial, challenge, and adversity.”

As I process the words of the Apostle Paul,  I think of the subtle hints God has given me over the past several days: When I stood in front of a crowd and sang the words “…I hope you win, I hope you lose, I pray you’ll realize that both are good for you…” When I ran into a friend who shared similar problems and situations from which we simply conclude “lesson learned.” When I wrote about legacies and remember my grandparents and the generations of men and women who marched on in spite of the difficult circumstances of two global conflicts and a great depression. In EVERYTHING give thanks.

On this Thanksgiving morning, I am thankful for adversity, uncertainty, challenge, and trial. Without them, I would not understand who I am, who I am not, and who He is. I would not have a deeper understanding and perspective of the journey. I would not be able to appreciate, cherish, respect, or admire had I not tasted from the bitter. I would not really know what it meant to experience a thankful heart. Today, I am thankful for EVERYTHING!

©Copyright 2012 Scott Rhoades/Ivory Hill Studios

United States Army Medic/Private First-Class (PFC) Thomas Greene’s knuckles turned a ghastly white as he clung to the frame of his temporary cot. A cold sweat covered his pale face as his head and neck pulsated with pain from the clinching of his jaws and his rapid heartbeat. An overwhelming sense of nausea continuously swept over him as his body tried to determine left from right and up from down. The sounds and smells emanating from his 4,412 comrades and the lower deck of the ship certainly didn’t help the situation. He tightened the closure of his eyes, laid his head back and tried to remember the pleasantries of life; his wife, daughter, and his home in the hills of west-central Pennsylvania.

It was December 1945, and Operation Magic Carpet was in full motion. The transfer of millions of military troops and equipment from the World War II fields of battle was an enormous undertaking for the United States War Shipping Administration, and was not without its risks. Battleships, aircraft carriers, attack cruisers, and floating hospitals were all re-tasked to deliver GIs from around the world safely home to their family, friends, and communities. Operation Magic Carpet commenced in October of 1945, and now, after three and a half years of service with the Medical Detachment 355^th Infantry Regiment of the United States Army’s 89^th Division and a two month wait, it was PFC Greene’s turn to head from home. He opened his eyes once again and looked around the deck. He wondered if they would make it and if they had made the right decision.

On the 13^th of December 1945, PFC Greene reported to the ports of Southampton, England for his final assignment to Operation Magic Carpet. It was a cold, brisk morning on the English coast, but nothing could distract the thousands of men who were waiting to embark on their journey home.  The line was long, but the wait would be worth it! After processing the final paperwork, he clutched the straps of his bag and walked towards the waiting ships. His eyes widened as he looked at his paperwork and looked up again. It was the largest ship he ever laid eyes on, and in spite of her numerous battles, wounds, scars, and refitting, she was here to carry him home…the United States Navy’s own Yorktown Class Aircraft Carrier – USS Enterprise CV-6!

The Enterprise’s reputation was second to none. Affectionately known as the “Big E”, the Enterprise was the final aircraft carrier (commissioned prior to World War II) to survive the war. Assigned to major Pacific battles, such as Midway, Guadalcanal, and the Doolittle Raids, this massive ship and her crew helped turn the tide of the war. Now, after a complete restoration, she offered herself as a transport of honor. The Enterprise, her crew, and 4,413 passengers departed Southampton on her second magic carpet mission, a mission that would test the courage, stamina, and strength of a GI just one final time.

A few days into the Trans-Atlantic journey, the Enterprise encountered a fierce oceanic storm, causing Captain William Rees and his crew to change course northward to Greenland; delaying the GI’s pre-holiday arrival. Frustration and anger set in and opposition to the course direction were voiced across the massive boat. Captain Rees and his officers met to discuss the situation. After nearly four years of war, the men longed to go home, especially for the holiday. Believing they could indeed navigate the raging sea, Captain Rees gave the order: Course correction, westward! The final fight was on!

PFC Greene opened his eyes once again and caught a glimpse at the outside conditions. Walls of water enveloped and washed over the decks of the mighty Enterprise. The boat rocked forwards and backwards, left to right, and then right to left. As the men groaned from the sickness enveloping their bodies, PFC Greene pulled a pre-deployment photo of his family from his top shirt pocket and held it closely to his heart. As a tear ran down his face, he once again closed his eyes and prayed a silent prayer. After three and a half years of survival, liberating men, women, children, and fellow soldiers from the atrocities of war, he needed to survive this final fight; he needed to go home.

On Monday, December 24, 1945, the USS Enterprise pulled into the docks of Bayonne, New Jersey. Lifeboats, jeeps, tanks, planes, and other equipment secured to the flight deck of the ship were all but gone, broken away and tossed into the sea by the ominous waves and prevailing winds of the storm. In their place stood 4,412 GIs, along with PFC Greene, who waved and cheered as they reached their final destination. They endured the battle, and now they were home.

On this Veterans Day, I salute Captain William Rees and his officers for successfully carrying out their mission and thank them for their leadership and courage in bringing home these thousands of soldiers and my Grandfather, PFC Thomas Greene.

©Copyright 2011 Scott Rhoades/Ivory Hill Studios