A Moral Crime

                                                               A Moral Crime

"We have to draw the line someplace, with all the pesticides used by farmers."
                                                                                               John Catsimatidis

    When I was sixteen years of age, I had become good friends with children of migrant workers who lived nearby, during the summer of 1969. They worked for various farms in the area, and asked me to come with them to pick potatoes, load them in wagons, and drive tractors to bring the loaded wagons up to the main barn.
   Driving a tractor! How cool is that!
   I met my friends at 4:30 am on a Monday morning, got to ride in a "GTO," and joined them to work on a potato farm.
   We all met with the owner of the farm at the main barn. He addressed us, standing on a flatbed trailer:
   "There is about two weeks work here for all of you. I need to have each of you work daily from 5 am to sunset, everyday until we are finished. At the end of the harvest, we will meet here and I will pay to $300 to each one who worked the entire time. Okay, let's get to work."
   There were approximately twenty of us, all Hispanics, except myself. My grandfather was 25% Cherokee, and during the summer my skin would get quite dark. I guess I was assumed to be Hispanic.
   Another driving motive to work on a farm, I had a "crush" on a girl named Rosa. Working on the farm gave me an opportunity to spend time with her. Besides, my parents were going through a messy divorce. I was sent to live with my grandparents for the summer. My grandmother had just passed, and my grandfather was going through a deep grieving process. They had been married 48 years. As a result, I was pretty much left on my own. After all, I was 16 years old! To this day, I don't remember if anyone ever knew I went to work with the "Mexican migrants," as they were called.
   It was two weeks I would not forget! Rosa and I worked together the whole time, except, of course, when it was my turn to drive the tractor. The tractor, hooked up to a wagon full of potatoes, would be taken to the main barn. The last few times I invited Rosa to ride with me.
   One time during the latter part of the second week, I decided to show her my "tractor driving skills," and drove at a higher speed. As I went to make a sharp right turn, I lost control and the entire wagon flipped over. Fortunately, nothing was damaged.
   Everyone came and pushed the wagon back to its upright position, gathered up all the potatoes that were all over the ground, and warned me not to "show off" to Rosa. The farmer and his sons never knew I had an "accident." Rosa gave me a kiss...I will always remember that because a Jimi Hendrix song was playing on the transistor radio. I was "The Star Spangled Banner," with Jimi doing the "guitar bombs," as our lips touched.
   After two weeks of work, we all met with the farmer and his two sons in the main barn...to get paid.
   I had plans! There was a big dance coming up and I was going to take Rosa. first, I wanted to take her to a restaurant, see a movie titled Easy Rider, and buy her a gift. She had been eyeing some cowboy boots for quite a while.
   The farmer once again stood on a flatbed trailer and announced, "Okay, I want to say thanks for all your work...here is your $300. I don't know who is in charge on how you are going to divide it."
   He laid three one hundred dollar bills on the flatbed near the left rear tire, jumped off, and started to walk away. One young Hispanic father spoke up saying;
   "Sir, we thought you said $300 for each one of us?"
    He laughed along with his two sons. The younger son spoke"I think it's time for all you Mexicans to get the hell out of here."
   That's how it ended. Two weeks later Rosa and her family were off to Illinois. We wrote a few times, yet I never saw her again, I gave my portion, all fifteen dollars, to Rosa's family. They had fed me with homemade Mexican meals the entire time we worked.
   About a year later, I went with my Aunt to a church service. The farmer, who owned the potato farm, was there. He read the "First Reading." My stomach cringed. I looked at my Aunt and said,
   "That guy is an asshole."
   She replied, "Oh hon,' you are mistaken. He is one of the most generous people of our entire parish."
   At least "a thousand thoughts" went through my mind. Instead, I smiled and waited til after service. There was a 'refreshment and fellowship time." I will get close to him and when the time is right, I will let him know what I really think of his fake and stinkin' religion.
   When I was about to approach him, two of his grandchildren came running up to him. I suddenly felt sorry for him. He was a sick son-of-a-bitch. Yet, I did not want to embarrass him in front of his family, especially his grand kids.
   I remembered how my grandmother had prayed for me. There were times I had been as "asshole" to her.
   So, I returned to the sanctuary, lit a candle, and prayed for him. It was the hardest thing I had ever done...especially not using 'cuss words" in my prayer.
   As I left the sanctuary, I whispered to my aunt, "I have to stop at the restroom, then we can go."
   She smiled, and as I opened the men's door and stepped up to a urinal, guess who stepped up beside me, on my left? Yep...there he stood, himself and me.
 
    He said, "Hi," and commented on the nice weather.
   "I haven't seen you here before."
   I turned, going to the hand sink to wash my hands. Looking into the mirror, directly at him, I tied my hair back (it was down to my elbows lol.) I did not initially respond. Then I turned and looked directly into his eyes,
   "Not here, but you have seen me before. When I picked your potatoes and you underpaid us for two weeks work, I was one of those you cheated. You really think this God you spoke of today...is going to let you get away with all that?"
   Obviously, my words caught him off guard. He looked somewhat shaken.
   The door opened a little and a voice spoke,
   "Dad, we are goin' to the car, meet you there."
   "Excuse me," as I walked to the door.
   Sure, sorry." it was the farmer's son.
   I looked back. The farmer was staring at me. Maybe he thought I was an angel...that might be cool!

 
   I share this because we all have power to help or hurt others. I find life to be a matter of choices, good or bad.

If you want to walk safely, it's best to go with
Integrity.
If you prefer to be shifty or crooked,
Exposure is awaiting you.
                                            Proverbs 10:9 (paraphrased)
 

"The Love of the Game"

George Ella Lyon is foremost, a poet.  She explains herself as being one that is to see and sing the connection between things.
She relates life to a spider's web, a "delicious image for something newly made from old patterns," like sentences writers spin each day.
The strength for this "web" comes from family, friends, words, music, dreams, mountains, and the joy of making."

I humbly submit my personal side of this "global web."

                                                    THE LOVE OF THE GAME

I am from a baseball darting inside the foul line out to right field, the ball only inches from reach, escaping and landing on an explosion of powder from the chalk line as it neared the cheers of the right field patrons.

I am from cigar smoke and trashy mouths supporting their favorite teams. The aromas and fragrance met with eyebrows raised, arms violently thrown up and down in the air, and a single stream of tobacco juice quietly running down a chin.

I am from the stillness of a last pitch, the ninth inning with two outs. All eyes focused, the quiet air suddenly breaks out. It was a thunderous boom! "Strike Threeeeeeeee."

I am from the sound of a bat, taking your breath away. it wasn't the loudness it made, it was the depth of its sound...the crowd knew.

I am from a young man sitting at the corner of a dugout bench, filled with chewed up sunflower seeds shells, empty Gatorade cups, and cigarette butts, splashed in tobacco juice. Leftover dreams filled with only echoes of the now silent stadium. The only sound heard were...his tears.

I am from a baseball thrown with all one's might toward the catcher's mitt, only to see the ball reverse direction as it quietly sailed over a wooden fence in center field. The crowd was silent, then reversed its direction, becoming very loud.

I am from Babe, Mickey, Sandy, and Willie. Leaning on ball bats, sitting on top of the dugouts, throwing a ball back and forth. These are my heroes!

I am from the tarp spread across the diamond by the groundskeepers. My voice uttering "Rain, rain, go away, please comeback some other day."

I am from a time my right forefinger traced the letters on my jersey that covered my proud chest. "Mom, don't forget to iron around the collar...I am pitching today!"

I am from a time I swung and missed. As I turned, eyes coming from the dugout were looking down. The coach walked by me where I sat, tapped me on the shoulder and said, " That was a nasty curve ball."

I am from a time I wore "my colors" true! They called us..."The Boys of Summer."

Vikings: Season 5 Official #SDCC Trailer (Comic-Con 2017) | History

Baseball: "Sunt Lacrimae Rerum," (There are tears for things)

Baseball was, is, and always will be to me, the best game in the world.   Babe Ruth

  The ceiling fan wobbled counter clockwise forcing the hot air upward. It was an extremely warm day in late October. My lil' brother and I were sitting at the dining room table, oiling our mitts for the last time, casually reminiscing over another fun season. We folded our gloves with a hard ball placed in the palm, supported the fold with a couple of strong rubber bands, put them in plastic bags, and tucked them away on the top shelf of a large, white, built-in cupboard. Baseball season had come to a close. It was time for the "Boys of Summer" to dream about next year.
  There may not be any "crying in baseball," but the sacred ceremony of putting our gloves away for the season was brutal, much like attending the funeral of a close friend.

I ain't ever had a job, I just always played baseball.   Satchel Paige

  As a child, baseball was everything to my lil' brother Bobby and me. I don't know if we would have survived without this national pastime being a major part of our lives.
  Like many families, we faced the brokenness of seeing parents fight and divorce, hearing the words of relatives on both sides of the family run each other down, and the emotional pull of wishing somehow there could have been a permanent truth amidst all the chaos. The sad truth is, some simply chose to carry bitterness and anger to the grave.
  Yet, there was one temporary reprieve. Baseball!

No matter how good you are, you are going to lose one-third of your games. No matter how bad you are, you are going to win one-third of your games. It's the other third that makes a difference.
Tommy Lasorda

  Bobby and I played baseball fairly well. We were able to make first string on our teams each season, played in a few all-star games, and by fifteen years of age were being encouraged to play at high school level. My brother was visited by professional scouts in his junior and senior years. He was more physically gifted player than myself. On the local level, I could hold my own.
  Game Day was a whole different matter! Members from both sides of our family would ignore the divisions brought by my parent's divorce. They came to watch...baseball! Uncle Jack, Aunt Esther, and sometimes Grandma would be in attendance. My Grandpa went to every game! It was good to see 'em sitting in the stands, together in common purpose...the "for the love of the game."

God, I always said I would never bother you about baseball, Lord knows you have bigger things to worry about. But if you could make this pain in my shoulder stop for ten minutes, I would really appreciate it.   Billy Chapel: For Love of the Game

  After Bobby and I "retired" from baseball and had to get real jobs, the competitive nature within us still remained.
  One Sunday afternoon, we were in a church league playing fast pitch softball. We both worked at factories and were married. I had dreams of completing my college education while my brother was busy raising children.
  Bobby and I were on opposing teams. In the top of the first, he walked up to the plate and hit a routine grounder to the shortstop, which happened to be me. I remember making the throw to first in time for my brother to hear the first base umpire cry out: "You're out!"
  The next inning I went up to the plate and hit a weak grounder to the second baseman. I too heard the base umpire yell "You're out!"
  My brother was smiling. He was very talented and could play multiple positions. He was playing second base that day.

If you're going to play at all, you're out to win. Baseball, board games, Jeopardy, I hate to lose.   Derek Jeter

Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good too. Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical.   Yogi Berra

  Yet, it was another baseball memory that rises above most others.
  It was my final league in Little League. I had made the All Star team and was voted the starting pitcher.
  Pitching was my favorite position. I had a decent fastball along with a curve that could go inside or out, depending how I held the ball.
  The aluminum bleachers were pretty full that day. I would guess around one hundred fifty people came to watch us play. It was a nice turnout, including my relatives from both sides of the "barb-wired, divisive fence."
  It was the bottom of the third inning. There were two outs. My team represented the National League.  I played for Williams Dairy...the Williams Dairy Dodgers.
  The young kid batting was ten years old. I was twelve and thought I would just overpower him with fastballs. I stood on the pitcher's mound and looked for a signal from the bench. The third base coach signaled a curve. I looked to the catcher for confirmation, and sure enough... a curve ball...to the inside. So, I threw my inside curve and the batter, Danny Feltz, missed it by a mile.
  Danny was a little guy and known for his speed and ability to bunt. I looked toward the bench. Once again, coach signaled for a curve. I looked at the catcher. He signaled a curve, except this time to the outside of the plate. I threw only to have Danny foul it off trying to bunt.

Baseball is like church; Many attend, few understand.   Leo Durocher

  Once more I looked toward the bench and this time I got the signal I had been waiting for. Fastball. I looked at the catcher and he confirmed...a fastball, to the inside part of the plate.
  One thing about Danny. He was a fearless competitor at the young age of ten. He would not back off anything or anyone. As I let go of my inside fastball, it kind of took off on me and I knew it might come in a little high...and tight.
  Danny stood strong in his batting stance and never moved as the ball came sailing toward his head. To this day I think he was looking for an outside curve. As a result, he stood straight-up waiting for the ball to break to his right.
  As the ball crossed the inside of the plate (a little inside the line of the batters box,) Danny was hit in the face. He dropped to one knee. There was blood on home plate and some on the front of his uniform, especially where the letters "T-I-G-E-R-S" were located. The ball had broken his nose.
  His mother sat in the stands. She was in the second row, third from the left. She stood up and screamed, calling me every rude name she could think of. Both benches emptied and the paramedics came flying onto the field in their red and white golf cart...with a stretcher.
  Members of both sides of my family tried to calm her down saying how nice a kid I was and that it was an accident. I was not the kind to throw at players...especially the head.
  That didn't calm her down.

The Statue of Liberty is no longer saying 'Give me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses.' She's got a baseball bat and yelling "You want a piece of me?'   Robin Williams

  When it was all over, Danny was taken to Emergency and everything turned out okay. Well, his face got real black and blue, but his nose repaired nicely.
  I continued to play in the game, although Coach did give me the choice of staying in or coming out. The main reason I stayed in was because of Danny. As he was being loaded to the ambulance on a stretcher, he grabbed my hand and gave me a thumbs up.
  Danny's mother wasn't quite as quick to pardon. She remained pissed for a while. A few weeks later I ran into her at the library. She happened to see me offered a small smile while giving a wave with her left hand. She walked directly to me and asked if I would relay to members of my family how grateful she was for the get well cards and homemade cookies different ones had sent. Then, she reached out and put her hands over mine, smiled once more, and gave me two thumbs up. That was the last time I ever saw Danny's mom.

Little League baseball is a very good thing because it keeps the parents off the streets.  Yogi Berra

  What will I take away from that childhood experience. Well, I witnessed both sides of my family having empathy toward Danny's mother, yet protecting me from any confrontation with his mom. Instead, they had my back the entire time.
  Yea, the episode itself seemed to last a few minutes, but the memory of everyone being there for me, will remain forever.
  Soon after, "family wars" resumed, yet for that brief moment...

Ain't no man can avoid being average, but there ain't no man got to be common.  Satchel Paige

Today I consider myself the luckiest man in the face of the earth.   Lou Gehrig


  

Memorial Day Requiem

  The heavy, baritone voice broke through the crisp night air. It was a direct order.
  Two men climbed out of the trench and carefully moved toward the ninety pound cylinders stacked horizontally thirty-five yards to the right of their unit. The winds had shifted and blew directly toward the enemy. Fellow soldiers, embedded in the trenches, kept their eyes glued on both men as they crawled toward the dark gray containers of death, avoiding stray gunfire that periodically sprayed about them.
  Covered in an army green, oil based tarp, one soldier began to untie the ropes at the base of the three high stacked cylinders. His comrade quickly followed suit. Their hands shook...Were they cold? It was mid-May and the day had been extremely warm.
  Before the troops arrival, the village had been picturesque. It was named Ypres, a Flemish community adored by the locals. Recognized centuries for its linen trade with England, Ypres dated back to the Middle Ages, being mentioned in The Canterbury Tales, first published in 1478. 
  As the men finished standing up one cylinder now positioned near the front line, a mystical silence gripped the air. 
  Another soldier, his right hand clenched to a valve handle located at the top of the cylinder, focused his eyes on the superior officer. He did not flinch a muscle.
  The heavy, baritone voice once again broke through the silence of the night. 
  "Open the valve now Private. Now!"
  The soldier, his right hand still gripped tightly to the valve, began slowly rotating it to the left. As the fumes began to fill the air, the young Private grasped his throat violently. About a dozen soldiers around him collapsed. The opened valve continued to release chlorine gas.
  The horrors of chemical warfare had begun...

  Lance Sergeant Elmer Cotton of the Canadian Full Artillery wrote in his journal the effects of chlorine gas on his fellow soldiers in the fall of 1915. He had been engaged in a series of battles against the Germans in Belgium throughout the year.
  "It produces a flooding of the lungs. It is an equivalent death to drowning, only on dry land. The effects are these; a splitting headache and terrific thirst (to drink water is instant death,) a knife edged pain in the upper chest, followed by coughing up of a green froth off the stomach and lungs, ending finally in insensibility and death. The colour of the skin from white, turns to greenish, black, and yellow, the colour protrudes and the eyes assume a glossy stare. It is a fiendish death to die."
  For many soldiers, within ten minutes after exposure, death occurred. Gas masks were not available in the early part of the war. Soldiers were given instructions to urinate on a cloth or handkerchief and use it to cover the mouth and nose. The ammonia in urine would neutralize the chlorine poisoning. 
  In 1918, the United States exercised the use of chemicals in warfare. A U.S. artillery unit fired poisonous gas against a large German unit. The American unit was led by Captain Harry S. Truman. (2)
  By the end of WWI, one hundred thousand tons of chemical weapons had been used. An estimated 30,000 soldiers died from exposure. It is furthermore thought 500,000 suffered various repercussions throughout their lives from chemical effects.
  In 1925 at the Geneva Protocol, chemical warfare was officially banned from use. However, the universal agreement did not outlaw the development of chemical use in warfare or the continued stockpiling of such weaponry.
  Sadly, we still see its use in various regions of the world today.

  
                                         ----------------------------------------------------------

  John McCrae was said to be a kind man. He was born in Guelph, Ontario and became a physician in the Canadian Mounted Forces Artillery. His friends and colleagues described him as warm and compassionate, a man of great empathy and deep conviction.
  John's professional career included teaching, an author, a poet, and a faithful soldier. He wrote numerous medical articles while teaching as an associate of medicine at the Royal Victoria Hospital (1904) and later a professor of pathology at the University of Vermont (1911.) He co-authored a book titled A Textbook of Pathology for Students of Medicine."
  At the beginning of WWI, "John followed a sense of duty to God, his country, and fellow man. He enlisted in the Canadian Forces Artillery and by 1915 had earned the rank of major. He was appointed brigade-surgeon and was stationed at Ypres, Belgium. Upon enlistment at 42 years of age, John was older than most WWI volunteers. In a letter to his mother he wrote, 'I am really afraid, but more afraid to stay at home with my conscience."
  Being extremely fond of animals, John brought his beloved horse "Bonfire" to Europe. It is recorded he wrote numerous letters to a niece and nephew, addressing the letters as if they were from Bonfire. The signature was the hoof print of Bonfire. 
  While in service during the war, John befriended a dog named "Bonneau." His canine buddy would accompany John while making his rounds caring for wounded soldiers in various medical wards.

  It was during a second series of battles at Ypres (1915) that John was deeply affected by the pain of war.

  The German army had once again made use of chemical weapons in their attacks against the Canadian Artillery, specifically chlorine gas. McCrae wrote of his experience as "17 days of Hades." During this time John and the medical staff attended to nearly 4600 wounded. He went on and wrote "...endless days of being awake, sights of the dead, the maimed, the wounded, and the atrocities of chemical warfare."
  During this series of battles, John lost a dear friend and fellow soldier named Alexis Helmer. On May 2nd of 1915, it was John who conducted his friend's funeral.
  The following day John, deeply disturbed with the loss of his dear friend, along with many other soldiers dying around him, wrote a most heartfelt and powerful poem. He was riding in the back of a military ambulance visiting an Advanced Dressing Station just outside Ypres. 
  John jotted down some words that would reach many hearts throughout the world. Later that year, December 15th, 1915 it was published by the English weekly magazine called "Punch." It quickly became the most popular English poem of the WWI era and still recited in various regions of the world today.

                                                      In Flanders Fields


"In Flanders Fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row to row.
That marks our place, and in this sky
The larks still bravely singing...fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead...short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved and were Loved, and now we live
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you...from failing hands we throw
The torch...be yours...to hold it high.
If we break faith with us who die.
We shall not sleep, though the poppies grow
In Flanders Fields."   John McCrae

  Since the poem's initial publication, it has been translated into several languages. Coins, stamps, and war bonds have featured lines from the heartfelt masterpiece. This poem has been set to music and sung by various choirs for decades throughout the world.
 The poem was named In Flanders Fields after the county of Flanders in western Belgium.
  Poppies, a flower common in Belgium, became an intricate part of McCrae's poem simply by observation. 
  During the funeral for his close friend Alexis Helmer, John was overtaken how quickly poppies were already growing around the fresh dug graves of many soldiers. Each plot had been marked with a small white cross.
  Today, red poppies symbolize loss of life. Purple poppies reminds us of  members of our families living today who lost a grandfather or great uncle to the "Great War."
  And white poppies? They remind the world never to use chemical warfare...ever again.

  John McCrae never returned to Canada. In January of 1918, he battled pneumonia. John was admitted to Number 14 British General Hospital for Officers in Boulogne, France. 
  John McCrae passed away on January 28th, 1918. He died rank of Lt. Colonel. (Speculation still inquires if his death was partially induced because of exposure to chemical gas.)
  His funeral included world dignitaries, government and military officials, along with many friends and admirers.
  In the tradition of Mounted Canadian Officers, McCrae's boots were placed backwards in the stirrups during the funeral procession. The horse carrying his boots in honor was none other than John's beloved Bonfire. 

"You silent tents of green,
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours."   Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  As we observe Memorial Day, allow yourself to pause and remember the many who have perished in various battle fronts in numerous wars to remind us why we stand free today.
  As a very wise man once said:

"There is no greater love than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
                                                                                                 John 15:13


Acknowledgements: 1. Flanders Fields Music
                                   2. The History Channel: Flanders Fields
                                   3. In Flanders Fields Museum

 
  

A Different Kind of Judge

  I can't compare Him to any human judge. At least a human judge I can visit in his/her chambers. His plate is kinda full, ruling and judging heaven and earth. And the thing is, it seems He is everywhere. To this day no one has ever been able to control Him.
 Yet, He knows where I am. In fact, He knows exactly where I am. And, get this, He knows what I have been doing and why I did it.
  It appears He enjoys testing me. Sometimes I think He is purposely trying to drive me "crazy." Every test seems to boil down to three questions: 1) Whom do I choose, 2) Whom do I refuse, 3) Am I willing to obey?


"I traveled East looking for Him. He was not there.
So, I went West...not even a trace.
Then, I went North, but He had covered His tracks.
So, I went South...nothing.

Yet, He always seem to know exactly where I am.
He also knows everything I have done, and
Knows exactly why I am doing,
And why I have chose to do so.

If that's not enough,
He asks me what I would do
If I were in His shoes.
He continues with numerous questions
Seeming to enjoy this time with me.

It was here I soon discovered
All He ever wanted
Was for me to pass the tests in life
With Honor.
His intent was that I might be pure...like fine gold."

                              Reflective thoughts of Job 23: 8-10

Mother's Day is Peace

                                                                Mother's Day is Peace


  Some historians have traced Mother's Day to the time of ancient Greeks and Romans. During special days dedicated to various gods, a particular festival was held honoring two goddess mothers, Rhea and Cybele.
  Other historians claim the founding of Mother's Day to a Christian festival, named "A Mothering Sunday." Its origin can be found in the Early Middle Ages and is celebrated on the fourth Sunday of Lent in various parts of Europe even today. Numerous theologians contend however this day is not to be confused with the more secular idea of "Mother's Day," recognized annually in the United States.
  Mother's Day as we know it, became a national holiday through an anti-war protest in 1914. Led by mothers in the cities of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago, it quickly gained national attention. Although U.S. declaration of war on Germany was only a few years away, the birth of this annual event had long been underway. But wait, there was additional evidence! Heartfelt stirrings of a Mother's Day promoting peace, had started decades before, in 1870. Julia Ward Howe, known for writing the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," promoted a "Mother's Peace Day."
  Howe asked women to "...gather in parlors, in churches, or in social halls. Take time to listen to sermons and essays. Sing hymns, pray, in the name of promoting peace." (Note: Pacifism received great popularity during this era.)

  Why 1870?

  The Civil War brought results both good and bad. Slaves were now free from their chains and soon able to become American citizens. Yet the cost of freedom came at great price to our country. With the population of the U.S. approximately 31 million at the beginning of the war, over 620,000 would sacrifice their lives for rights and freedom of all. Two percent of the entire United States population would be lost in only four short years. (Note: more Americans died in the Civil War than WWI, WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War combined. If the names of all Civil War military personnel were arranged like the Vietnam Memorial, they would have to expand the wall ten times the present size.)

  By 1911, individual states were celebrating Mother's Day. Yet it was 1914 that President Woodrow Wilson lobbied to give Mother's Day a federal proclamation. Congress approved Mother's Day announcing it would be celebrated annually on the second Sunday of May.
  Nine years prior a woman named Anna Jarvis had started a movement to recognize mothers who had lost members of their families in war through the designation of a national holiday. The movement got the attention of President Woodrow Wilson.
  Anna Jarvis had been inspired by her own mother Ann Jarvis. Her mother had cared for wounded on both sides during the latter part of the Civil War. She worked fervently to orchestrate peace between mothers of the North and South. She started a "Mother's Friendship Day," encouraging compassion toward one another, regardless of the color of their uniform.

  The passing of Anna's mother in 1905 devastated her. The sympathy cards were overwhelming and the gratitude for all the compassion and service her mother had given during such strenuous times were still deeply appreciated by many, decades later. Anna picked up where her mom had left off, promoting a day of recognition for all mothers.
  Mother's Day found great popularity after its national day was declared by Congress on April 2, 1914. The popularity quickly expanded throughout the world. 
  After the Germans had lost in WWI, letters from a German soldier written to his mother while in front line battle, were found in a chest of a small upstairs bedroom. These letters brought national attention.
  "Dear Mother, War is Hell. The smells are putrid. Imagine dead bodies, human waste, and men who have not showered in months. Many of us have trench foot. I wonder if you could send me some clean dry socks. Mine are horrendous." Love, Karl.
  When the war was over, here was a P.S. added to the bottom of another letter Karl had written.
  "Dear Mother, I finally received your care packages. When I received them, all I could do is laugh, and the delivery man joined in. Unfortunately, someone got to them before I could. All that is left was the packing paper." Love, Karl.
  Today, Germany joins numerous countries in a national Mother's Day recognition.

  Anna Jarvis faced adversity after Congress had approved Mother's Day. Jarvis was adamantly against business commercializing this national event. Candy manufacturers, greeting card companies, and floral shops sought revenue from this deeply emotional day.
  Anna referred to the commercialism by various business and churches as "Christian pirates." Speaking at a public event, she explained "If the American people are not willing to protect Mother's Day from the hordes of money schemes that would overwhelm it with their numerous schemes, then we shall cease having a Mother's Day..."
  Anna Jarvis never profited from Mother's Day. Despite numerous opportunities, she refused to use her status as a founder of Mother's Day for personal gain.
  Anna passed away penniless at age 84 years of age, living in Marshall Square Sanitarium. She thought the white carnation should be the official flower for Mother's Day. It had been her mother's favorite. In 1927, Anna explained, "The carnation does not drop its petals, but hugs them to its heart as it dies, and so, too, mothers hug their children to their hearts, their mother love never dying."
  Anna Jarvis never married nor had any children.

  "God could not be everywhere,
             And therefore he made mothers."
                                              Rudyard Kipling