Imagine this: it’s November 1, 1512, and you’re one of the lucky few commoners permitted to enter the Pope’s private place of worship—the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican in Rome.

You look up. You’re awestruck. That star-studded blue sky is no more. Overhead, a wonderland of colorful, dynamic Biblical figures in fresco leap and frolic across the ceiling. After five years of labor, that 37-year-old Italian painter, sculptor, and architect—that Michelangelo—has brought the Old Testament to life.

Just being able to view the centerpiece of the ceiling, The Creation of Adam, is worth the trip to Rome.

What a grand tribute the Sistine Chapel is to the creativity of this extraordinary artist. As Johann Wolfgang Goethe wrote (back in 1787), “Without having seen the Sistine Chapel one can form no appreciable idea of what one man is capable of achieving.”

But wait a sec, Michelangelo’s genius isn’t the only example of mind-blowing human creativity made public on one of these November first dates in history. This one is remarkable in its complexity . . . and terrifying in its potential:

On November 1, in 1952—on one of the atolls that make up Eniwetok Island in the western Pacific—America tested its first thermonuclear bomb. It was a fusion bomb, over 500 times more powerful than the atomic bomb that leveled Nagasaki in 1945.

The blast pulverized the tiny atoll of Elugelab, creating a crater 6,230 feet in diameter and 164 feet deep. A mushroom cloud rose to an altitude of 56,000 feet in less than 90 seconds and grew to a diameter of 100 miles with a “stem” 20 miles wide. Watch a snippet of what happened as Elugelab disappeared forever.

What a mind-boggling outcome of human creativity: harnessing the tiniest of nature’s elements to create such an earth-shattering “achievement.”

Can there be a greater gulf than between the artistry we see in The Creation of Adam and the destruction we fear from having harnessed the atom?—TM

Featured Photo: Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam

Imagine this: You, your wife, and your Hawaiian associate and his wife are dropped off on a coral atoll near the equator in the southwest Pacific—after six weeks aboard a small sailing ship from Honolulu. It’s November 17, 1857. You four are the only non-Gilbertese on an island of 3,000 people. And you don’t speak their language. Nor do they speak yours.

No hotel or guest house here. No restaurant. No stores at all. No phones. No contact with the world you grew up in. No airplanes, no systematic boat service. You’re stuck!

Somehow you figure out where to sleep that night, and what to eat—and every night and every meal thereafter for seven years. You set about building “a home” and trying to learn the language from the locals—grunting and gesturing to get folks to tell you what the word is for what you’re pointing at, or the action you’re pantomiming.

It takes you a year to develop a vocabulary of 1,000 words, enough to make your needs understood, even enough to try short, halting sermons in the local language.

Yep, you’re a missionary: Hiram Bingham II. You’ve settled on Abaiang Island in the Gilbert Islands. And you’re there to convert the “heathens” to Christianity.

Talk about a tough go: Three months after you arrive, your wife, Clara, gives birth to your first child. He’s stillborn.

But you survive. You make acquaintances. You work to establish a mission. You add to your word list and begin to translate the Bible into this previously unwritten language of Gilbertese.

7 Years of Hardship, Perseverance, and Devotion

You and Clara labor on in Abaiang for seven trying years. When the Morning Star arrives to take you back to Hawaii in 1864, both you and Clara are deathly ill. Your weight has dropped to 128 pounds. Your “flock” has never materialized. You’ve made only a handful of converts. But you’ve finished translating two-thirds of the New Testament into Gilbertese.

Twelve years later—in 1873—you and Clara return for another two-year stint. Then you spend the rest of your lives in Hawaii. And are you ever productive! You compile the first written Gilbertese-English dictionary; and you translate the rest of the Bible into Gilbertese, both the Old and New Testaments, along with hundreds of hymns and numerous commentaries on the Bible.

As for Clara: she’s no stay-at-home housewife. She writes a Gilbertese reader for children; a book of Old Testament stories; and grade school textbooks in math and geography—in Gilbertese. And she and Hiram produce a son, Hiram Bingham III—yep, that one: the explorer of Machu Picchu fame.

So you ask, “So what? That’s history! Old news in a faraway place!”

I thought so, too, . . . until I came across a new-to-me Gilbertese dictionary on Amazon. The author? “Anonymous”.

I own a first edition copy of Bingham’s dictionary, entitled simply, A Gilbertese-English Dictionary, published in 1908 in Boston by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. I also have several other Gilbertese-English, and English-Gilbertese dictionaries published since Bingham’s groundbreaking work. So of course I was intrigued by this new dictionary by “Anonymous.”

A New Dictionary! But Who Is This “Anonymous” Author?

Wow, a new Gilbertese dictionary. Hardcover. $23.95. And with an impressive seal on the cover—“Scholar Select”. But by an anonymous author? How odd . . . I ordered it anyway.

Oh my!

This hot “new” addition to Gilbertese literature is a photocopy of Bingham’s dictionary. Yep, a photocopy—including the inside cover page which identifies it as Bingham’s work.

And believe it or not, a reprinted page with this book donation stamp:

“Harvard College Library
Bequest of
Roland Burrage Dixon
May 19, 1936”

OK, Bingham’s work was published in 1908. The copyright has expired. Anyone can reprint it, including in this case, Franklin Classics, an imprint of Creative Media Partners.

And how nice to know that the book came from a stellar source: Harvard. Did Franklin Classics borrow it? Was it a library castaway? Surely, they didn’t steal it, did they?

I looked up the publisher. Here’s the image on their homepage. Beautiful visual, no? Obviously, here’s a company that values scholarship and books. But wait: no list of products; no staff names; no physical address, e-mail, or telephone number—just a form to fill out with our info, and any question we may have about one of their books.

This compelling image of a grand library dominates the homepage for Creative Media Partners

And here’s how Creative Media Partners define their mission:

“We are dedicated to making high quality reproductions of public domain works available in print again. Our books may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. However, we believe these works are culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring them back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. Our books are reproductions published before 1923 or are otherwise found in the public domain.”

A noble calling indeed.

So they copied Hiram Bingham’s hard-won work and reprinted it. Fair enough. But then they conveniently replaced the author’s name with “Anonymous”!

ANONYMOUS? My God! Hiram Bingham was anything but anonymous. His dictionary introduced the Gilbertese language to the world of printed literature.

And to those anonymous folks who reproduced Bingham’s work as a “Franklin Classics, an imprint of Creative Media Partners”—and attributed it to Anonymous: FOR SHAME.

And a footnote: The Bingham line is anything but anonymous. Here’s a brief outline:

Hiram Bingham I (1789-1869)—with others, translated The Bible into the Hawaiian language.
Hiram Bingham, II (1831-1908)—translated The Bible into Gilbertese and wrote the first Gilbertese dictionary.
Hiram Bingham III (1875-1956)—Yale professor and explorer noted for bringing Machu Picchu to the western world’s attention; later, a US Senator from Connecticut.
Hiram Bingham IV (1903-1988)—American diplomat in Japan, China, Poland, Great Britain, France, Portugal, and Argentina. During World War II, as vice-counsel in Marseilles, he helped more than 2,500 Jews flee from France as Nazi forces advanced.

Featured Photo: Abaiang Island today—not in 1857

Everyone has seen the iconic WWII photo of Gen. Douglas MacArthur striding through the water in his khakis, shoes soaking wet, right?

Well, roll back the newsreels: This week marks another historical date we can’t forget: Leyte Landing Day, October 20, 1944, when American troops led by Gen. MacArthur landed near present-day Tacloban City, Leyte in the Philippines. Thus began the long, slow, tough advance up that island chain toward Japan during World War II.

That event and MacArthur himself both evoke indelible memories for us.

FIRST, Terry and I lived in Tacloban for two years as Peace Corps Volunteers in the mid-1960s. We have visited the very beach where MacArthur landed and have seen the decrepit landing boats slowly decaying in the tide.

SECOND, General MacArthur was a particular hero for my would-be soul mate, Jack Sigg, who once sent me the full recording of a 40-minute speech MacArthur had delivered at West Point in 1962—a powerful speech about the West Point motto: DUTY, HONOR, AND COUNTRY.

“Those three hallowed words,” MacArthur intoned, “reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points to build courage when courage seems to fail, to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith, to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.”

“However horrible the incidents of war may be,” he went on. “The soldier who is called upon to give his life for country is the noblest development of mankind.”

Jack found the speech inspiring.

Me? I shivered at the implication of those words as they came over a scratchy audiotape letter to me that day—for him, for me, and for any wife, parent, friend, or relative of a soldier. It wasn’t the most romantic letter Jack ever sent, but it left a deep impact.

Our memoir, A RENDEZVOUS TO REMEMBER, is a cheerful celebration of Jack’s more romantic side. The book is available in hardbound, paperback, Kindle, and now, as an audiobook.—Ann

Featured Photo: Gen. Douglas MacArthur landing in Leyte, The Philippines, WWII, October 20, 1944

What a year! The Coronavirus forges ahead, and the anti-mask/anti-vaccine forces rally in the streets and at local school board meetings. Congressmen glare across the Democratic-Republican chasm like combatants in the Western Front trenches. We teeter on the verge of letting the United States fault on its debts for the first time in history. And the pundits continue unabated.

We need a break.

Here’s one—let’s celebrate the anniversary of a nearly forgotten event that comes up this week: Thursday, October 14, 1960. During that week 61 years ago, we were consumed by a hard-fought presidential campaign: Kennedy v. Nixon.

That day, after campaigning tirelessly since dawn, JFK flew into Ann Arbor for a rally at the University of Michigan. He was late. It was 2 a.m. But 10,000 students remained on hand to greet him—yes, TEN THOUSAND! His short speech challenged those present “to contribute part of your life to this country.”

He took that challenge a step further at his inauguration: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”

And he cemented it into action 38 days later on March 1, 1961 with an executive order creating the US Peace Corps. This wasn’t empty talk. He meant business. By late August, the first volunteers were on their way to Ghana and Tanzania. Since then, more than 240,000 volunteers have served in 142 countries.

Today, no Peace Corps volunteers are serving overseas. To protect them from COVID-19, the Peace Corps evacuated all 6,982 volunteers in February and March and brought them home.

Despite the hasty (but well-executed) exit, the Peace Corps lives on. There’s staff in the Washington D.C. headquarters. The Biden budget sets aside $410.5 million for Fiscal Year 2022.

The agency says it will send Volunteers to Belize in 2022. We’ve got our fingers crossed. Hopefully, the agency will begin to climb back in the months to come.

For us—for Ann and me—we celebrate October 14 because those seeds JFK planted that night 61 years ago in Michigan took root and changed our lives.

We joined the Peace Corps three months after our marriage in 1965, and spent two years in the Philippines. It set us on a path of international travel—from our “home” in Tacloban City, Leyte, to the incredible hand-carved Banaue rice terraces in the north to the shimmering sands of Zamboanga in the south.

Beyond our teaching assignments, we spent one summer “vacation” in Manila writing curriculum for the nation’s vocational schools and another one traveling then-remote Samar island, scouting out assignments for future volunteers. Throughout our service, we made friends and learned to see the world through different eyes.

We spent six weeks traveling back to the US after our tour ended: through Hong Kong, Taipei, Seoul, and up Japan from Fukuoka to Hiroshima, Osaka, Kyoto, and Tokyo.

Years later, Ann and I were fortunate enough to live and work for three years on Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands as country co-directors for Peace Corps programs in the Solomons, Kiribati, and Tuvalu. Not “pilot and co-pilot,” but co-directors, equal in status and responsibility, working side by side.

We traveled throughout the islands: By seaplane, Piper Cub, copra boat, motorized canoe, truck bed, Suzuki jeep, and on foot to villages high in the jungles of Malaita, Rendova, Kolombangara, and Guadalcanal. We slept in thatch huts on betelnut slats and on dirt floors, and some nights, both of us squeezed together in a sagging single mattress.

Our work took us to Tarawa, Betio, Marakei, Butaritari, Abemama, Funafuti, and dozens of islands and atolls in the central Pacific that we hadn’t known existed.

In addition, our official Peace Corps business took us to Nauru, Fiji, Papua New Guinea, the Marshall Islands; Canberra and Sydney, Australia; Chiang Mai and Bangkok, Thailand; Kuala Lumpur; and, believe it or not, Casablanca and Marrakech, Morocco.

The Peace Corps opened the world to us. As soon as we’re comfortable with flying again—travel will resume its role in enriching our lives.

We’ve been to exotic places, yes—many others since our Peace Corps days—but the best gift the Peace Corps gave us was to open our lives to people who aren’t like us, who don’t think like us, or “look like us.”

We’ve met so many talented, engaging, fascinating people in the places we lived and the places we’ve visited—and in Washington, DC, as well as overseas. (After the Solomons, I spent two years in Peace Corps headquarters.) I discovered that those “Washington bureaucrats” are among the hardest working, brightest, most talented, most dedicated co-workers I’ve ever met. That’s the Peace Corps.

Those memories and those friendships are the lasting impact of the Peace Corps. That’s why we honor JFK’s extra effort in Michigan that night in 1960. Join us in spirit Thursday night: tip a glass and toast a remarkable organization.—Terry

October: We rejoice—our high temperatures in Las Vegas are in the two-digits at last!

We’re thankful for the cooler weather, yes, but October also sparks memories of another unforgettable date from our Peace Corps years: October 1, 1978—Independence Day in the tiny South Pacific nation of Tuvalu.

A proud young man waves the Tuvaluan flag

We stood in silent awe that afternoon as Great Britain’s Union Jack officially descended for the last time and faded into history. Around us, Tuvaluans cheered as their new flag ascended the pole for the first time.

What a thrill to be on hand when a nation gains its independence! A day to remember—and what a fete!

But wait. You ask, “Tuvalu? What’s that? And where?”

Good questions. Here’s a bit of context before we join the festivities:

A tiny chain of remote coral atolls in the vast Pacific

Formally the Ellice Islands, Tuvalu (pronounced Too-VAH-loo) is a chain of nine small atolls (coral and sand islands) in the west-central Pacific, halfway between Australia and Hawaii—660 miles north of Suva, Fiji. The chain stretches for 370 miles across 500,000 square miles of ocean. Total land mass: 10 square miles. The 1978 population: 7,300. The 2019 population: 11,600.

It’s tiny. It’s remote. It’s the tropics: hot and humid. And these days it’s in serious jeopardy from climate change.

How so? Today, as the Pacific Ocean rises, it eats away at the shorelines. Tuvalu has no rivers or mountains—the nation’s highest point is 16 feet above sea level. Just below the coral and sand surface, a subterranean lens of fresh water floats above the salt-water infused coral base of each island. This life-sustaining fresh water is usually replenished during the mid-October to early April rainy season. But rising sea has begun to pollute the lens with salt water. In drought years—more frequent these days—fresh water has become a scarce commodity. The country is losing both land mass and the fresh water vital to existence.

Invitation to Independence: A hearty welcome

In the late 1970s, as co-director (with Annie) of Peace Corps programs in Tuvalu, Kiribati, and the Solomon Islands, I represented the Peace Corps at Tuvalu’s independence celebration. I flew into Tuvalu’s capital of Funafuti with the American delegation, where Tuvalu’s prime minister, all the top government officials, and a crowd of local folks met us on the airport runway.

Like a cadre of Polynesian majorettes, eight young women—clad in traditional grass skirts, brightly colored blouses and colorful “grass” streamers—paraded us through a friendly “gauntlet” of two rows of 100 villagers, outfitted in equally colorful attire.

Typical Tuvaluan dance wear

It was a five-minute leisurely stroll from the airport runway to the country’s sole hotel. It offered five double rooms, and was only ten yards from the lagoon (the side of the island more protected from wind and rough seas). Behind us, another 150 grass-skirted men and women followed—all dancing and singing as we paraded our way from the runway to a welcoming reception.

After a reception, we gathered for a welcoming feast in the island maneapa, the huge, thatched-roof, open-sided traditional village meeting house. We sat tailor-style on plaited mats at “tables” designated by intricately woven mats spread on the floor in front of us. Across from each of us, a young woman set out a finger bowl for washing our hands, then sat stoically facing us, fanning away both the heat and the flies as we ate—one brightly-dressed caretaker for each of us.

And oh, the food! Grass-skirted men delivered the feast. We each got a whole chicken, a filet of newly smoked tuna, a bowl of clam stew, roast pork, rice, five big pieces of various types of taro, a dozen bananas, three types of locally made sweets, and two freshly cut coconuts (for drink). Each of us! And no doggie bags.

The gift of companionship in a land with few amenities

Funafuti is Tuvalu’s capital “city.” It’s a tiny atoll, 593 acres—that’s smaller than many of the family farms where I grew up in Colorado. Its population is 2,100. No cafes or coffee houses. No theaters. No shopping malls. No bookstores. No TV or newspaper. No tourist diversions—typically the entire nation gets fewer than 100 foreign visitors yearly. Tuvalu has no traditional industry. Its people raise their own food—they’re sustenance gardeners and fisherman.

I spent the two days before Independence talking Peace Corps business with Tuvalu and Kiribati officials, and chatting one-by-one with our three volunteers. Twice a day we visitors gathered in the maneapa for the daily feasts.

Early mornings and late evenings I strolled alone along the lagoon shoreline, down the runway and into the palm forest beyond the village. In those early morning hours, and at night, friendly voices rang out greetings from the darkness.

Each night we gathered in the maneapa for three to five hours of traditional dance—packed in tightly with villagers, as if we were part of the performance rather than audience, again sitting on hand-made “grass” mats on the  concrete floor. Everyone was singing—not just the dancers. A bank of men pounded out the rhythm on six-foot-long wooden drums, five-gallon tin cans, and by slapping their thighs. I didn’t understand the words, but the joy was irresistible, and the chorus of male voices mesmerizing. The maneapa pulsed. We were one, a single vibrating being, like a human beehive.

On Independence Day—October 1—Britain’s Princess Margaret presided over the formal hand-over. We listened to speeches. We cheered silently (in deference to the British royalty and resident expats still on hand) as the Union Jack came down. We congratulated our hosts, shook hands, chatted about how great freedom from foreign domination felt.

Those feasts spark vivid memories, as have those nights packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the maneapa with the citizens of Tuvalu, singing in their independence. The melody of independence remains an unforgettable refrain, underscoring their pride of Independence on October 1!—Terry

Hear their singing for yourself—and see a typical Tuvaluan dance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SU9Te2fQOXU

For more on Tuvalu’s current dilemma, see Eleanor Ainge Roy’s article with Sean Gallaher’s stunning photos in “Seascape: the state of our oceans ‘One day we’ll disappear’: Tuvalu’s sinking islands” at https://bit.ly/3F1Xe5Y

Featured Photo: Fongafale Island, home to the Tuvaluan capital, Funafuti. Note that the runway extends the full length of the populated part of the atoll.

It’s a milestone birthday week for the Peace Corps: The big Six-Zero!

Sixty years since September 22, 1961, when JFK signed the legislation creating the Peace Corps.

Sixty years of memorable events: the first 51 Volunteers arrived in Ghana in the fall of 1961; the Peace Corps expanded rapidly—500 volunteers in nine countries by the end of that year, 15,000 by June of 1966; service extended to 142 countries.

Sixty years—240,000-plus Volunteers!

But today, the Peace Corps lies in suspended animation, a victim of Covid-19. No Volunteers are serving abroad. None. Zero.

In eight days, beginning on March 16, 2020, the Peace Corps brought every Volunteer back home to the U.S.— 6,982 of them. None have gone back—at least not officially.

Despite the hasty (but well-executed) exit, the Peace Corps lives on. There’s staff in the Washington D.C. headquarters. The Biden budget sets aside $410.5 million for Fiscal Year 2022, and the agency says it will send Volunteers to Belize in 2022. But today, no Volunteers are in the field. Nothing’s permanent about a new startup date.

What a loss! Not only to the world, but to a new generation of Americans.

Annie and I spent seven years in the Peace Corps—two as Volunteers in the Philippines; three as the country co-directors of programs in the Solomon Islands, Kiribati, and Tuvalu; and for me, two years in the Washington D.C. headquarters.

A Peace Corps Honeymoon: Two Years in the Philippines

For us, it seems like yesterday when Annie and I stepped from that Philippine Airlines flight onto the tarmac in Tacloban City, Leyte, one bright September day in 1965. We were newly minted Volunteers, six months married—Tacloban would be our home for the next two years.

I arrived in the Philippines a budding young newspaperman—with a journalism degree and a short stint as editor of the Glendale (AZ) News-Herald—and with hopes of someday owning my own small town newspaper. Annie had a BA in English and a year’s experience teaching English at Glendale Union High School. She wasn’t as clear about her long-term goals.

Those two years changed our lives forever—as Peace Corps service has done for thousands of other Volunteers. What an education!

Suddenly we were strangers in a wonderfully “strange” land. After our three months of intense training, we arrived able to carry on a basic conversation in Tagalog—but, alas, they spoke Waray-Waray in Tacloban. Challenge One on Day Two: start all over—learn yet another language.

Annie with Guillerma Villacorte

My assignment was to instruct my Filipina co-teacher in the latest techniques for teaching English as a second language. My co-teacher, Guillerma Villacorte, had been teaching for twenty years. It was she who taught me how to teach—as well as how to speak Waray-Waray.

We quickly learned that we Americans were too blunt, too single-minded, too rushed to fit easily into Filipino society. And that physically, we looked different from everyone else—we stood out like sore thumbs. People noticed what we did . . . or didn’t do that we should have. We crossed boundaries we couldn’t see and violated taboos we didn’t realize existed.

But we listened, and watched, and learned, and slowly came to realize that the “American way” isn’t the only way or necessarily the best way to live one’s life.

After the Philippines, I went to grad school—no longer in journalism, but to study community organizing and intercultural change.

Ten years later—after hard-fought battles against racism and poverty in the Chicano barrio in my hometown and a PhD in rural development, the Peace Corps called us again.

Adventures Anew: Three Countries in the South Pacific

Carolyn Siota, administrative assistant extraordinaire

This time, as country co-directors of Peace Corps operations in the three strikingly different cultures of the Solomon Islands (Melanesian), Kiribati (Micronesian), and Tuvalu (Polynesian), Annie and I plunged again into new life styles, new languages, new adventures as foreigners in wonderfully different lands. And we realized again—thanks to Carolyn Siota, our incredibly talented administrative assistant—that without local guidance, we’d never accomplish anything overseas.

After three years in the South Pacific, wonder of wonders, I ended up in Peace Corps’ Washington, DC headquarters. Talk about strangers in a strange land! But a fascinating one—Peace Corps/Washington was peopled with remarkable, talented, hardworking colleagues. It was bureaucracy at its best.

Our five Peace Corps staff years reaffirmed those lessons we first learned as Volunteers in Tacloban City: that we Americans were too blunt, too singleminded, too rushed. In the Solomons, we looked different from everyone else—again, we stood out like sore thumbs. Again we crossed boundaries we couldn’t see, and violated taboos we didn’t realize existed.

But again we listened, and learned, and broadened our lives and our outlook.

A Solomon Islands village on Guadalcanal

Once more we survived the challenge of being immersed in settings where we didn’t know the languages—gesturing, grunting, trying to extract meaning from strange sounds. We traveled to remote villages where meals consisted of fire-roasted sweet potatoes and boiled veggies that looked a bit like collard greens, but served on banana leaves, and eaten with our fingers. We learned to sleep on sharp-edged slatted floors, or two of us in a furrowed single bed.

And most of all, we reaffirmed our joy in travel—especially to out-of-the-way places. Like Plum Pudding Island, where daring Solomon Islanders rescued JFK after the Japanese navy sunk his P-T boat in WWII; to Funafuti, Tuvalu, where Louis Zamperini (the subject of Laura Hillenbrand’s remarkable biography, Unbroken) took off on his fateful flight; to WW II battle sites on Tarawa and Guadalcanal.

Lessons for Life: the Joy of Unique Challenges

Our twin beds in Jah-Deh—both colorful and comfortable

Our Peace Corps experiences served us well on later trips—like dinner in our Quecha-speaking host’s smoky, dim, candle-lit kitchen on Amantani Island in Lake Titicaca; or the night we slept on the floor in the Chin village of Jah-Deh in the mountains of western Myanmar; and the wind-swept, ice-cold room in the hotel under renovation in Sa Pa, Vietnam.

And our lives have been enriched by the folks we’ve met:

• The Japanese family who took us in because we couldn’t articulate that we weren’t really dirt-poor—they served us dinner in their home, and put us up for the night;
• The owner of a small hotel in Wasserburg, Germany, who sent a bottle of wine to our room because we were from Las Vegas, and her daughter was in our city that very night celebrating her 21^th birthday;
• The teachers we worked with in Ban Pa Ngio, Thailand, who took us into extraordinary temples, and farm fields, and local markets on their days off.

Annie makes a friend in Yangon, Myanmar

The Peace Corps imbued us with that irrepressible urge to travel, the desire to mix with people different from us—in language, skin colour, history, education, living conditions . . . The realization that America isn’t the center of the universe . . . A fresh awareness of some of our own biases, values, desires that are strikingly different.

We didn’t accomplish world peace in our seven Peace Corps years—and we didn’t really expect to. But we did plant some seeds, and helped guide a few students and some of our Volunteers into fruitful projects. And we made some lifelong friends.

But most of all, our Peace Corps years reshaped our own lives. They made all of us—Volunteers and staff—citizens of the world, and, we think, better persons.

That’s the real contribution of the Peace Corps. For that alone, let’s hope this 60^th anniversary leads us to overcoming Covid-19 and getting Volunteers back into the field.—Terry

Four U.S. Olympics gymnasts, Simone Biles, McKayla Maroney, Maggie Nichols, and Aly Raisman, moved me to tears yesterday as I watched the Senate Judiciary Hearing on former team doctor Larry Nassar’s sexual assaults on team members.

I was riveted by their courage and composure as they described Nassar’s unspeakable acts and the FBI’s apparent slow-rolling and apparently doubting response to their allegations.

All the Senators praised the young women for sharing their stories, and some of them asked questions about the FBI investigation into Nassar. As the inquiry moved forward, I held my breath and waited.

Where were the additional questions and answers that would guide establishment of protections for our young athletes?

The questions I hoped for didn’t come, questions like: What steps must we take to prevent these assaults on our young athletes? What changes are needed to ensure our children are safe? For example, why don’t we insist that staff members are never allowed to conduct “exams” or be alone for “coaching” in one-on-one isolated settings—and likewise that any FBI investigation should be respectful of, and not dismissive of, the individuals presenting their concerns.

Senators, while you are straightening out the FBI part of this problem, please also establish protections for our young athletes, to prevent them from being assaulted in the first place, and further diminished by investigators. To do any less fails to address the full magnitude of the problem.

Justice requires more than an after-the-fact investigation and reprimand. Real justice demands that we learn from these women’s experiences and implement reforms that will protect all children from such abuses.—Ann

Some gifts are too special to be used—or, in this case, to be worn. My commemorative Shanksville t-shirt is one of those.

It was a gift from Bud Sigg (the father of my friend Jack), who sent it as a memento of Pennsylvania’s place in the history of the 9-11 attacks.

That day, the passengers on Flight 93—one of four planes hijacked by terrorists on September 11, 2001—deterred the hijackers from their intent to crash the plane into the U.S. Capitol. Instead, they forced it into the ground some 30 miles from Bud’s home in Johnstown, Pennsylvania.

I try to imagine whether Bud Sigg, who was going about his life in Johnstown, heard the scream of that Boeing 757 as it nosedived into that Shanksville field. Did he feel the impact?

How did I get into this picture?

My family and the Sigg family were friends because Jack and my brother Ralph were best friends at West Point.

Years later, after Jack died, Bud adopted my brother as a “surrogate son”. Bud corresponded with my brother, and sent him the occasional crisp five-dollar bill for Christmas.

After my brother died in 1987, Bud adopted me as a “surrogate daughter.” Over the years, we exchanged chatty letters and small gifts. From time to time, he sent me mementos, including news clippings extolling Jack’s accomplishments; a lady’s amethyst ring; and Jack’s “A-pin”—the West Point equivalent of a fraternity pin. I sent him souvenirs and stories from our travels, including colorful calendars.

Bud’s 9-11 gift was a gray t-shirt emblazoned with a huge fire truck, honoring the Shanksville Volunteer Fire Company, Station 627 on the front, and the Heroes of Flight 93 on the back.

Bud invited me into rural Pennsylvania’s special place in history when he sent me that t-shirt.

Eventually, we began to wear it—on the 9-11s that followed. And on days when we wanted that bright spot of color or that reminder of the bold action the passengers of Flight 93 took. And other days, just because . . .

I’m wearing that t-shirt on the 20th anniversary of that horrific day—

• To salute the volunteers of the Shanksville Fire Company . . .
• To honor the heroes of Flight 93
• To commemorate the thousands of people who died on 9-11 . . .
• To thank those who worked selflessly under life-threatening conditions to rescue or recover the victims in the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and the Shanksville field.

And because every time I put it on, it reminds me of Bud Sigg and his only son, my dear friend, Jack.—Ann

You know how some dates remain in your mind forever—the place, the time, the “feel” of an incident? Today marks one of those days—not only for all of us as a nation, but for me personally:

It’s August 28, 1963, Wednesday, late afternoon: I’m driving Red Mountain Pass from Ouray, Colorado, back to Silverton when the summer monsoon hits. My windows fog over. I inch into a rare pull-out at the edge of a cliff, only half a car wide.

I flip on the radio and hear Walter Cronkite’s avuncular voice, “. . . presenting Miss Mahalia Jackson.”

It’s The March on Washington!

Mahalia Jackson sings, “I’ve been ’buked and I’ve been scorned . . .” The crowd roars—two hundred thousand people, Cronkite says. A rabbi speaks. Martin Luther King comes to the podium. Through the static, he cries, “Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells.”

I respond, “And me from the arms of Laura Lee Christensen, a girl who loves me.” The rain stops. I sit there on the edge of that cliff and soak in King’s every word.

King isn’t a stranger to me. His Stride Toward Freedom provided the intellectual basis for my request to be classified a conscientious objector. But I had never heard him speak. He pours similes over metaphors and wraps them in allegories. He knows when to pause, when to repeat, when to shout, when to whisper. He booms, “Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York . . . from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado.”

“The snowcapped Rockies! Wow, he’s calling me! Me, personally!! Here in the snowcapped San Juan Mountains of the Colorado Rockies.”

I drive on to Silverton in euphoria. Martin Luther King has touched me anew. I haven’t done enough for civil rights. I’ve lost my way since I left the Colorado Daily. I’ll make him proud, I vow.—Terry
 —excerpt from Chapter 5, “Alone,” A Rendezvous to Remember

Listen to MLK’s “I have a dream”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P_s3ChZlRY

And have you ever seen Red Mountain Pass in a rainstorm? Hold your breath (this video is only 38 seconds): https://www.facebook.com/ilike9news/videos/10154183691021077/

Photo: Military supplies on Guam awaiting sorting and shipment, 1944. Photo from souvenir booklet in the Garretson family archives.

We like to play a mental game we call “Where was I when . . .”

Last week the game took us back to August of 1945 when our fathers were off at war: Terry’s dad somewhere near Munich in Germany, and my dad on Guam.

That week, my 3-year-old self and my cousins were romping through the hills of Cloudcroft, New Mexico. Terry, nearly 4, his mother, and a passel of cousins were living with his grandparents in Anacortes, Washington. Great times for pre-school kids; tough times for our parents—dads gone to war; lonely moms raising kids amid the chaos of modest houses not designed for multi-family living.

Last week, the mental game took a picturesque twist when we rediscovered a 20-page booklet of photos published by the Guam Air Depot shortly after the end of the war.

My father, Col. Ralph B. Garretson, Sr., was Chief of the Supply Division at the Guam Air Depot from December 17, 1944 to August 10, 1945. Seventy-six years ago last week, he wound up his service on Guam, soon to depart for Honolulu, then on to Wright Air Force base in Ohio.

My dad wasn’t dodging bullets and bombs on Guam. He was in charge of making sure the “air corps tactical units” on the front lines in the Pacific got the supplies they needed to carry on the war.

When we talk about handling supplies, the accompanying photo tells it all—imagine organizing, keeping track of, and distributing such a mountain of supplies . . . without computers.

He apparently did a bang-up job on Guam: He was awarded an “Award of Legion of Merit” for his work. The commendation says: “For exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services.

Col. Garretson (left) with Gen. Maxwell Taylor. Photo from Garretson family archives.

“As Chief of the Supply Division, Guam Air Depot, Colonel Garretson, despite inadequate operating equipment and properly trained personnel, organized and performed outstanding service by providing under adverse circumstances supplies for air corps tactical units.

“His outstanding qualities of leadership, perseverance under unusually difficult conditions, zeal to accomplish in the shortest possible time an assignment of tremendous importance to the mission of the Army Air Forces in the Mariana Area, have made him of inestimable value to this command and the tactical organizations it serves.”

That was a long time ago. But not too long to remember and to give thanks. We haven’t forgotten.

More of my memories of my dad at http://terryannmarshall.com/military-man/. –Ann

On July Fourth, we celebrated our nation’s independence… and again we let our minds travel back to that day in 1776. We wonder what it must have been like to live in nascent America on July 4, 1776…

It would be another year before a new, hand-sewn 13-star Old Glory would be run up a hand-hewn flagpole. We imagine fife and drums… and remember Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill.

But July also reminds us of how blessed we (Terry and Ann) have been to witness firsthand the waning of empire, and the dawn of national sovereignty—in three widely scattered Pacific nations, more than 200 years after our own country’s independence:

• Solomon Islands: July 7, 1978
• Tuvalu (formerly the Ellice Islands): October 1, 1978
• Kiribati (formerly the Gilbert Islands): July 12, 1979

At each independence celebration—in Honiara, in Funafuti, and in Tarawa—we watched Great Britain’s Union Jack descend and fade into history. Free at last, free at last…

None of these countries had to outgun the Redcoats at their own Bunker Hills—though too many islanders, our Solomon Islands friend Jonathan Fifi’i among them, spent too many months in colonial prisons because they dared call for the end to British rule.

In the end, each country negotiated its freedom over tea and crumpets in London. And freedom’s intrepid defenders wore suits and ties, not army uniforms.

But inhabitants of these nations did have to fight invaders to preserve their freedom—against the Japanese in World War II.

In the Solomons, they fought alongside their American allies on Bloody Ridge, and on the banks of the Lungga, Matanikau and Tenaru Rivers on Guadalcanal; and at Tulagi, Munda, and Rendova.

And in the Gilberts (now Kiribati) they joined forces with Americans to defend and liberate Makin and Butaritari atolls, and Betio in Tarawa.

So to all our readers: Join us as we celebrate independence this July 12 with our friends in Kiribati.

Another day to remember. They, like us, celebrate with pride the end of foreign domination.

Photo: Celebrating at the Independence Parade

July 7th—Happy Independence Day! What, you say? We missed the day by 72 hours? NOT!

July 7 is the day Solomon Islanders celebrate their own Independence from Great Britain—303 years after the U.S. declared our independence from the same colonial power. What a long shadow the U.K. cast over the globe!

As U.S. Peace Corps Country Co-Directors, our family lived three years on Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, including that day in 1978 when the Union Jack came down and the brand new Solomons flag first flew over their Parliament. The Solomons has a special place in our hearts for its tropical beauty and its warm-hearted people.

Carolyn Siota, Best-Ever Admin Officer

We were struck early on by this expression, “saed blong oloketa,” which translates roughly to “that’s how those folks are”—a non-judgmental observation that people are different from one person to another, from one family to another, from one tribe to another, and from one nation to another. Not better or worse, just different. The statement is delivered as a way to explain why people behave differently. And your best response should be, “Hem nao, ia!”—roughly translated as “Yep, that’s right.”

Our Peace Corps Family

We loved living in the Solomons for these reasons, for the adventures we had there (fodder for another time), and for the new addition to our family. Our son Shawn was born in Honiara, Guadalcanal.

So Happy Independence Day, Solomon Islands! We still reserve a part of our hearts for your people, your land, and the special experiences we had when we lived there!—Terry and Ann

In the mid-Sixties, our US cities were burning, with riots in Los Angeles, Chicago, and Newark.

Finally, in July 1967—54 years ago—and amid new riots in Detroit, President Lyndon Johnson issued an executive order appointing the Kerner Commission on Civil Disorders and demanding answers to three basic questions about the riots.

What happened?

Why did it happen?

What can be done to prevent it from happening again and again?

Seven months later, the Kerner Commission issued its report. Its primary conclusion:

“Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal.”

It added, “What white Americans have never fully understood but what [black Americans] can never forget — is that white society is deeply implicated in the ghetto. White institutions created it, white institutions maintain it, and white society condones it.”

The Kerner Commission nailed the problem: systemic white racism—despite the fact that it focused too narrowly on housing (and its use of the denigrating term “ghetto”).

What we can learn from the Kerner Commission Report

The report gives us insights into how we can confront two of America’s most vexing threats today:

1. The pervasive existence of systemic racism (brought to the fore by the murder of George Floyd);
2. The overt movement to overthrow our democracy as exemplified by the insurrection on January 6.

As we did a half-century ago with the Kerner Commission Report, we’ve identified—in the aftermath of Mr. Floyd’s murder—systemic racism as a major issue. Once again, racism is a major topic in the public debate. That’s an essential first step toward attempting to eradicate it.

So far, we’re not so good on combatting the second threat, however.

To deal with the insurrection effectively, we need a modern-day Kerner Commission study—a full-scale, blue-ribbon panel investigation to answer those three questions: What?” “Why?” and “What can be done to prevent it from happening again?”

We’ve all seen video evidence of what happened on January 6—the images haunt us, and words fail to capture the enormity: Appalling. Evil. Criminal. Despicable. Sickening. Heart-wrenching.

We’ve been fortunate through the years to have lived and worked in several foreign countries—three years in the Solomon Islands and two in the Philippines as a married couple; a year in Italy for Ann as a teenager. One result: a treasure-trove of great memories from those locations.

Tomorrow is Memorial Day, a day that reminds us how truly fortunate we’ve been—we’ve always come home from our foreign travels. Many Americans—hundreds of thousands—have not.

Memorial Day always immerses us in two solemn afternoons we spent at American World War II cemeteries abroad—one in Manila; the other in Normandy.

Manila’s 152-acre American cemetery is home to 17,184 American graves. Gleaming white markers stretch in precise rows as far as the eye can see. The day we were there, blood-red Poinciana blossoms puddled the grass among the silent rows. In addition, a curving cluster of huge marble tablets lists another 36,286 names of those missing in the Pacific Theatre in World War II.

Normandy’s cemetery is smaller: 9,385 graves; 1,557 names of missing soldiers carved in stone.

Both cemeteries plunged us into the past. We walked silently—you don’t chitter-chatter here. We read names carved into gravestones. We wondered about who they were, how they died, the families they never saw again. And we’re thankful that our fathers survived. Sobering places!

Sadly, these cemeteries and monuments memorialize a relatively small portion of the 418,500 Americans who died as combatants in World War II . . . and the 50,000,000-plus men, women, and children of the Allied nations who died in that war.

Writing our memoir (A Rendezvous to Remember) about our early days has been a 3-D roller-coaster ride: breath-taking, but some of the twists and turns left us bruised and aching, like my decision to marry against my parents’ wishes.

Fortunately, the winds of time sand-blasted the rough edges of that disagreement but never erased the deep love within our extended family, and I still have warm memories of my mom cuddling me as she read bedtime stories, serving up fresh-baked bread when I returned from school, and dashing off for another shopping adventure—always sharing jokes, her brown eyes sparkling.

And now, on this Mothers Day, I look at Mom’s photo and long for a good old-fashioned mother-daughter talk. Sadly, our long-ago talks centered too much on “me,” not enough on Mom. I gnash my teeth now at the many questions, large and small, I never thought to ask my mom about herself, like . . .

• What were your best memories from high school and college?
• What are the most important things you learned growing up, and from whom?
• What were your best accomplishments in your professional life?
• What were your best memories about former boyfriends?
• How did you finally decide that Dad was “the one”?
• What did your folks say when you told them you had married Dad?
• What did you learn about Dad that you didn’t know when you got married?
• What was your love life like? (It’s okay. I’m a grownup now.)
• What are the best adventures you and Dad had together?
• And, Mom, tell me, how was YOUR day today?

How about you, my website visitors? What questions would YOU want to ask your mom?

What questions have you asked that have yielded the best talks?

—Ann

On Memorial Day, we pause to reflect on how fortunate we’ve been through the years to have lived and worked in several foreign countries – three years in the Solomon Islands and two in the Philippines as a married couple; a year in Italy for Ann as a teenager. One result: a treasure-trove of great memories of those locations.

Manila American Cemetery: 17,184 Americans buried here

Each year, Memorial Day reminds us how truly fortunate we’ve been – we’ve always come home from our foreign travel. Many Americans have not – hundreds of thousands of them died overseas in American wars, including the eldest son of President Teddy Roosevelt.

Today, on this Memorial Day, we think back on two solemn afternoons we spent at American World War II cemeteries abroad – one in Manila; the other in Normandy.

Missing in Action honored in Manila: 36,286 Americans lost are remembered here

Manila’s 152-acre American cemetery is home to 17,184 American graves. Gleaming white markers stretch in precise rows as far as the eye can see. The day we were there, blood-red Poinciana blossoms puddled the grass among the silent rows. In addition, a curving cluster of 20-foot high marble tablets lists another 36,286 names of those missing in the Pacific Theatre in World War II.

Normandy American Cemetery: 9,385 Americans buried here

Normandy’s cemetery is smaller: 9,385 graves; 1,557 names of missing soldiers carved in stone.

Both cemeteries plunged us into the past. We walked silently – visitors don’t chitter chatter in these sacred spots. We read the names carved into the gravestones. We wondered about who they were, how they died, how their families coped when they didn’t come home. And again we were thankful that our fathers survived their wars. Sobering places, these cemeteries!

On this Memorial Day, we sadly note that these cemeteries and monuments memorialize a relatively small portion of the 418,500 Americans who died as combatants in World War II . . . and the 50,000,000-plus men, women, and children of the Allied nations who died in that war. Yes . . . FIFTY MILLION!

Please Meet 2 US Army Vets Who Weren’t Americans

Also, as we pause on Memorial Day, we remind ourselves that not all American Army veterans were in fact Americans. Let us introduce you to two vets we had the honor of knowing: Sir Jacob Vouza, a Solomon Islander, and Teofilo Ripalda, a Filipino:

Sir Jacob Vouza: Tied to a tree, stabbed, left to die

Solomon Islander and U.S. Army scout Jacob Vouza with U.S. Army Col. George Tuck

Jacob Vouza’s peaceful life on tropical Guadalcanal in the remote Solomon Islands was upended in 1942 when the Japanese captured the island in their march across the Pacific toward Australia. When the U.S. Marines landed on Guadalcanal in August 1942, Vouza, a retired policeman, joined them as a scout. On “a mission too far,” the Japanese surrounded and captured him. When he refused to divulge information on U.S. Marine forces, his captors tied him to a tree, bayoneted him, slit his throat, and left him to die. Vouza chewed through the ropes, then crawled and stumbled miles through the jungle and raging battle to report enemy positions to his company commander.

He was made an honorary Sergeant Major in the U.S. Marine Corps, awarded an American Silver Star and Legion of Merit, and the British George Medal for gallantry. In 1979 he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth. After the war, Vouza named his tiny village on the Guadalcanal plains “California.” The photo is of Vouza with Col. George Tuck, taken on Guadalcanal, 1943.

Thirty-five years later, Vouza befriended us, and we him, when we were co-directors of the U.S. Peace Corps program in the Solomon Islands. You can read a bit more about Vouza in Terry’s essay, “By Canoe into My Father’s War”. Vouza is also the subject of two books: VOUZA by Hector MacQuarrie (Macmillan 1948), and WHERE THE SUN STOOD STILL: The Untold Story of Sir Jacob Vouza and the Guadalcanal Campaign (Toucan 1992)

Teofilo Ripalda survived Bataan Death March

Imagine a 65-mile forced march of 76,000 captured soldiers – 12,000 Americans and 64,000 Filipinos – through a sweltering jungle to be dispatched to wretched prisoner-of-war camps in the Philippines, China, and Japan.

Teofilo Ripalda endured 65-mile 5-day Bataan Death March

Our friend Teofilo Ripalda was one of those Filipinos who endured that march – World War II’s infamous Bataan Death March. For those who may not recall, after the April 9, 1942 Japanese rout of U.S. and Philippine forces, the captives were starved, beaten, shot, beheaded, or simply left to die during that 5-day march.

Some 23 years later, Terry and Teofilo became friends as fellow teachers at the Leyte Institute of Technology, Tacloban City, Philippines, where Terry worked as a U.S. Peace Corps Volunteer. Besides working together on the “Faculty-Employee Club,” the school’s teacher-staff union, they chatted daily over morning merienda (coffee break), where, over time, Teofilo gradually told of the horrific details of the death march.

Fortunately, both Sir Jacob Vouza and Teofilo Ripalda survived World War II and lived long, productive lives. But what a price they paid for their – and our – freedom!

Memorial Day is a day to honor men and women like Jacob and Teofilo, as well as for those Americans who died in service to our country.