June 6, 2024- Eighty years ago, American forces began the process of landing at a series of beachheads, along the northern coast of Normandy, France. Contrary to some characterizations by people too young, apparently, to have much awareness of World War II, this was a real, and somewhat deadly, event. So, too, was the Holocaust that took place between 1942-45. Real people died, and others suffered mightily, despite what those who make apologies for Fascism would have the rising generations believe.
One of those who suffered mightily was a Jewish-American soldier, captured along the southern limit of the Battle of the Bulge, near Bellecroix, in Metz, France, in January, 1945. He survived, and returned to the U.S., in the aftermath of V-E Day. He married, and sired a daughter, who grew up to be strong, intelligent and of sound moral character. Forty-two years ago today, that daughter of a soldier became my wife. Our marriage lasted 28 years, 9 months, until her death, in 2011, from pneumonia that was brought on by a progressive neurological disease.
Penny led me to embrace a Faith that has made more sense to me than any other system I have ever studied or investigated. She held the bar high for me, as a husband, and more times than not, I reached it- just as she met my expectations of her as a wife. Those times when we each fell short were more growth opportunities than failures, and they served to give our son the roadmap to a successful marriage of his own, which began civilly in November, 2018 and became faith-based in March, 2019.
I have done a lot of reflecting on our time together, and on the flow of energy that has sustained me, in the thirteen years since her passing. Thirteen years of largely alone time, punctuated by a growing friendship with another strong, intelligent woman, of sound moral character, would not have been possible, without feeling Penny’s spiritual energy, a light brush against me or a strong message from the other side of the curtain that separates the corporeal from the ethereal. Forty-two years have passed, and I will never be the same soul I was before she entered my life.
March 12, 2024- The Old Pueblo shimmered in the morning light, and invited me to stay a while. First was a dinner invitation, which I wouldn’t dream of passing up, then there was all that lay in front of me, in El Presidio, and nearby Jacome Plaza, the gateway to the University of Arizona. I would not have enough time to visit U of A, but more on that in a bit.
Pima County Courthouse, Tucson
My first stop was the Pima County Courthouse, the domed gem of downtown Tucson. Five To Oh Coffee is a small stand, inside the building, with plenty of seating in the patio just outside. In the Sonoran Desert, “outside” is comfortable all day long-from mid-October to the end of May. So, I took my large coffee and blueberry empanada to a shady spot near the yet-to-open Southern Arizona Visitors Center.
A few minutes later, it was upstairs to the Dillinger Courtroom, where John Dillinger and his accomplices were tried and convicted-after the Tucson Police duped Public Enemy # 1 and the gang into a baited trap.
Dillinger Courtroom, Pima County Courthouse
Dillinger was still a media sensation, and his craftiness was matched by that of the Pima County Sheriff, who sold tickets to people wanting to see the killer bandit in his jail cell. After his conviction, Dillinger was sent to a prison in Indiana, from which he again escaped, and was later killed in Chicago.
Once I had read the displays outside the courtroom ,including information on Wyatt Earp, it was time to check out the Visitors Center. There, I noted a diorama of southern Arizona, with various buttons that lit up cities, highways, rivers, mountain ranges (Pima County has nine of those) and Native American reservations (Arizona has 23 of those).
On the west patio of the Courthouse is a Memorial Park honoring the victims of the January 8, 2011 shooting, in a northeast Tucson shopping center. They ranged in age from 9 to 76, and included a sitting Federal judge, a Congressional aide and a girl who had been born on September 11, 2001. Left paralyzed by the attack was the shooter’s prime target: United States Representative Gabrielle Giffords, still alive and in recovery.
Christina Taylor-Green, the 9/11 Baby who died in the 2011 attack, was an avid swimmer. Thus, this fountain became a centerpiece of the memorial.Heroes of an earlier time of difficulty are also honoured here. Among them was my late father-in-law, Norman Fellman, captured by the Nazis near the end of the battle, in January, 1945. He survived six months in the concentration camp at Berga, where he was placed because he was Jewish.
Lunch time brought me to a small food truck, parked at Jacome Plaza, just east of the Courthouse. Carlos Jacome, Sr, and his wife, Dionicia, raised thirteen children-and the downtown Tucson business core-with help from a former rival, Harold Steinfeld. Jacome’s Department Store, along with Steinfeld’s, was a staple of downtown, for decades. In honour of the Jacome family, all of whom had a keen interest in the business, Jacome Plaza stands in front of the central public library. OaxaRio Food Truck serves fresh, delectable Oaxacan and Sonoran style treats. Next to it is Special Eats, which contributes to autism and Down’s Syndrome assistance programs. Here is a view of Jacome Plaza:
“Sonora”, by David Black (1991), restored by Trevor O’Tool.
Once lunch was enjoyed, under “Sonora’s” watchful gaze, I spent a nerve-wracking, but ultimately fruitful hour-long learning experience, in Joel D. Valdez Library, attempting to get online, and finally figuring out, with the aid of two library clerks, that my VPN was blocking access to the WiFi. Good to know, for the future: Get online first, then activate VPN-so long as the network is secure, as this one was. This experience used up the time I would have spent walking over to the University of Arizona, but no matter.
After checking e-mails, creating the previous day’s post and enjoying a refreshing Shamrock Matcha, at Ike’s Coffee, across the street from Jacome Plaza, it was time to go up to Tohono Chul, Tucson’s signature northeast green space. “Tohono Chul” means “desert corner”, in the language of the Tohono O’odham, whose own name means “Desert Dwellers”. It is a prime botanical garden, preserved by Richard and Jean Wilson, in the late 1960s. The Wilsons owned nearby Haunted Book Shop, from 1979-97, and gradually pieced Tohono Chul together, until the present 49 acres resulted in today’s bright oasis. Today, Jamie Maslyn Larson and her team maintain the vision set by the Wilsons, and Tohono Chul is a bright spot in the Catalina Foothills neighbourhood.
Tohono Chul Botanical Garden, north TucsonGeology Wall, Tohono Chul Botanical GardenJumping Cactus, aka cholla, Tohono Chul Botanical Garden.A “boot” left by a sahuaro, serves as a nesting site for various birds and small mammals.
It was soon dinner time, as well as quitting time for the Park staff, so off we all went, at 5 p.m. I headed down to a Red Lobster, on the southwest end of town, and joined a couple of old friends for a pleasant 90-minutes of catch-up and great food.
Finally, the drive southeastward, to Benson, then Tombstone, and finally to Sierra Vista-where my favoured Knight’s Inn was ready with a comfortable room. Thanks, Old Pueblo, for once again showing more of your many good sides!
January 27,2024- The grief-stricken woman told me, and bar staff, what had happened to a beloved family member, and relayed the seemingly nonchalant reaction of someone who had once told her that he was dependable. I shared with her about my own experiences, and the current state of my life. She was heartened by both what I had experienced taking care of my late wife, Penny, and by the present state of a new love in my life. As she broke down, and needed reassurance, I hugged her, and she wished me well with the rest of my life. When she left, we briefly discussed our own reactions to her story; D’s daughter agreeing with me that an undependable friend is no friend at all. I paid for my meal, and coffee, then headed back to Home Base 1.
I thought of Penny, and how no matter the level of difficulty with her condition, I would never have left her alone, or dismissed her pain. I stayed with her, until the end of her life, and would do so again and again. I think of the new love that has appeared in my life, and know that if she needed me to be by her side, post haste, I would be there, across the ocean, as quickly as humanly possible-and stay with her, for the duration.
Today, one of the most influential men I’ve ever had the honour of knowing would have turned 100 years of age. That he was the father of my first true love as an adult, and the treasured grandfather of our son was a bonus. Norman David Fellman was, more than these, much more. He was the living symbol of the Holocaust survivors-a Jewish soldier in the U.S. Army, in the final year of World War II. He was captured by the German Army, in the southern flank of the Battle of the Bulge, kept prisoner in Berga, in a special POW unit of Jewish-, Mexican- and Romani-Americans. He survived, and when found by the U.S. Army, 97 pounds clung to his 6’1″ frame. He thrived, attended college, decided to open his own shoe business, married his life-long sweetheart, sired Penny and adopted twin girls-raising all three to be strong women. He and my mother-in-law, Ruth, were married for 65 years, until his death in 2014. (Ruth survived him by four years.) They owned and ran a farm, which tided them over, when he sold his shoe business. They raised and rode Arabian horses, teaching all three girls-and me, how to ride, and care for, those wondrous beasts. Norm was a fixture in Veterans organizations, and even made a video of his experiences, which at one point aired on national television. It must have come very hard, but he made it his mission, to ensure that the experiences of those who kept freedom alive were not forgotten.
Likewise, International Holocaust Remembrance Day was established, in 1996, on this, the day of Norm’s birth. It was a fact that gave him great satisfaction, though like the gentleman he was, IHRD became more important to the day, than his own birthday. That this remembrance has continued, despite the noise and hasty judgement heaped upon all Jews, for the actions of a relative few among them, would be a point of pride, for Norm, Ruth and Penny, were they here among us still. He would fulminate, as only he could, against all those he saw as perpetrators of injustice.
I was all too glad to have been able to help a stranger in distress, to help finish a good friend’s move, earlier in the day and to give due homage to a great man. Let us never forget the Shoah!
May 30, 2022- It’s been little over eight years since Pops left us. My father-in-law, Norman D. Fellman, regarded his two sons-in-law as the boys he never had. I got a ton of advice, the greater part of it useful, and I can credit that advice for much of how our son has grown into manhood.
As I’ve mentioned in the past, Norm was taken prisoner by the German Army, in December, 1944, in the southern sector of the Battle of the Bulge. He was held, until just before V-E Day, at Berga, a substation of Bergen-Belsen Prisoner-of-War and Concentration Camp, just southeast of Gera, Thuringia. He, and a few dozen other “undesirables” (Jews, Romani and Mexican-Americans) were assigned onerous tasks, day in and day out. His crew went to a salt mine. Norm and one of the Mexican-Americans would prank the Germans, constantly, putting glue in the salt and adding gravel underneath a three or four inch coating of salt. He never said where he got the glue; in fact, he rarely talked about his experience, until President Clinton lifted a lingering gag order that had stifled World War II veterans, since President Truman’s tenure.
There were many aspects of his personality and ways of doing things, from which I have drawn wisdom. He made me realize that I was not a substandard person, and that my rights were the same as anyone else’s, but that I had to stand up and expect them. It is because of Pops that I became quite forceful in standing up for Aram, and for summoning every bit of inner strength, to care for his daughter, my wife, in her years of decline. He knew, when I was being attacked by state bureaucrats, who told him that I was lax in her care, that this was bunk. (The upshot was that they wanted her to be placed in a state home, thus giving them access to her disability payments. This, of course, did not happen-and she lived out the rest of her days in an environment of HER choosing.)
Pops-and Mother- had the bounty of being well-tended by their youngest daughter, still one of the hardest-working people I’ve ever met, until their respective deaths in May, 2014 and October, 2018. That is the true beauty of a force of example: It redounds to the benefit of the role model, in one’s final days.
Most of us are aware, by now, of the initial celestial and spiritual steps towards the establishment of a truly peaceful world, one based on universally-recognized principles, which may be equitably applied across a plethora of situations.
The process of that world’s unfoldment, however, will be both steady-and very slow. In a few days’ time, humanity will, to varying degrees, honour the Birth of Jesus the Christ-on the date arbitrarily chosen, ages ago, for its celebration. We will also be remembering the period of time when Nazi Germany, acting the part of wounded bear, struck back at its democratically-ruled foes, with deadly force.
The interplay of Light and Darkness, coming at one of the two periods of great discrepancy between North and South, in terms of daylight, is a unique reminder of the nature of both solar light and human decency. The Sun cannot light an entire planet all at once. Nearly eight billion people cannot move together in perfect harmony, all at once.
There needs to be a means for those whose portion of the globe is experiencing night, to remain safe and warm. There needs to be a mechanism for enlightening those whose recognition of change is either slower than others’, or both listening to and encouraging those whose mindset is rooted in the philosophies and dictates of the past.
There are people of goodwill, who simply cannot see the necessity for change in the way that mankind approaches the formidable tasks which lie ahead. There are others, similarly benevolent, who cannot see the value of adhering to ANY of the practices that are honoured by time. Only education, in a sincere and equitably applied system, can bridge the gap between these two camps. Only education can stem the human tendency to believe whatever notions and pronouncements come forth and verify even the most inane and fear-based of one’s own beliefs.
The procession will go on, but it may, of necessity, be a slow one.
August 27, 2016, Prescott- Last Sunday, I spent some time with a World War II veteran, retired from the U.S.Army, as a colonel, who commanded a battalion on Utah Beach, during the D-Day invasion, in 1944. He was fading, when I saw him, so I knew it was a matter of time, before his departure from our midst.
That passing came this evening, and John A. Mortimer, “only 96”, found himself looking down upon many friends who will miss his presence. His widow, a native of Britain, called him her “Laddie”. Certainly, during his years of service to his country, including time in the Battle of the Bulge, when he pushed his unit into Germany, with General Patton’s blessing, he moved with the swagger of youth- and made it count for something.
John was still on active duty during the Korean War, but stayed stateside, to monitor the testing of atomic weapons. It was a decent turn of events, that he did not suffer any ill effects from those unfortunate days.
He served, at our American Legion Post, as a member of the Honour Guard, and was its flag presenter at funerals and memorial services, for several years. John was also the first person one saw, on Sunday mornings, when breakfast was being served, as he was the cashier. All that ended, about 1 1/2 years ago, when he became confined to the VA Hospital here in town, and to a wheelchair.
His wit, and keenness for Turner Classic Movies, remained, though, until a couple of weeks ago, when the Good Lord let him know that it was time to start packing up for the journey homeward. That journey became complete, around 9:30 this evening.
We, his comrades at the Post, will honour John on Labour Day- looking back on his extraordinary life, and taking a cup o’kindness, for his service, and all those long ago days.
November 27,2014, San Diego- Buddha essentially instructed His followers to “want what you have”. Thankfulness for what already is, I have found, is also a springboard to the greater. I can look back on 2014, and look around at what is right in front of me, in recounting my blessings. As my sixty-fourth year winds to close, and I start the long countdown to Birthday 65, on Nov. 28, 2015, I give thanks for these:
A healthy, vibrant 26-year-old son, who has proven, time and again, that parenthood is one of the best investments of time, energy and resources that a person can ever make.
A body which, while looking every bit of its 64 years, nonetheless keeps up with the challenges I face-and craves more physical activity, in the form of hiking and my exercise regiment at Planet Fitness.
Having discovered essential oils. Not only have they helped overcome what few health challenges I have faced, over the past year, (most recently including a visit from Senor Streptococcus), but they are a vehicle for me to share holistic health practices with others, almost on a daily basis.
Having such a vibrant network of family and friends, both online and in real time. We spent maybe two hours on the phone today, all told, and spoke with each of my siblings, my two sisters-in-law and both mothers. I’m sure my dear soul mate and our Dads were listening in, from the other side of the fence.
Having had a wealth of enriching experiences this past year: Hiking in places like Seven Falls in Tucson; Bill Williams Mountain; Cave Creek and parts of the Black Canyon National Recreation Trail; touring Kartchner Caverns; being on Utah Beach, Normandy, on the 70th anniversary of D-Day; visiting the ruins of the church where my paternal ancestors were baptized, in Rouen, France; paying homage to St. Jeanne d’Arc, at the sites of her imprisonment and immolation; seeing several of the great sites in Paris, Mont St. Michel, Amiens, Brussels, Brugge, Ghent, Luxembourg, Heidelberg and Frankfurt; paying respects to the heroes of the Battle of the Bulge, in Bastogne; getting the chilling reminder of my late father-in-law’s wartime suffering, while visiting the ruins of the POW camp, where he was held prisoner, in Berga, Germany; enjoying 1 1/2 days in Honolulu; sailing from that lovely city to San Diego, aboard my son’s ship and two trips to San Diego and other parts of southern California, besides.
Feeling ever more confirmed in my faith, and seeing how Baha’i helps those who place trust in God transcend the urge to conform to the prevailing sentiments of our larger society- Materialism, nationalism, racism and outmoded traditions. The journey of the spirit is an endless one, and I feel like I’m just getting started, even after the passage of 33 years as a Baha’i.
The year ahead is looking to be equally busy and fulfilling; stay tuned.
June 27, 2014, Gera- The wait for the train to Berga, while standing on the platform at Gera Hauptbanhof, was almost as long as the time I actually spent in the former prison camp town. It was due at 1:15, and came at 2:15. In the meantime, I was amused by a man chasing his 9-year-old son around the platform, as the child giggled and hid behind the concrete posts. This became the child’s fault, when the train actually did pull in, and Pater-Meister was embarrassed that the boy was almost hit. The boy took his tongue-lashing quietly, but I could tell he had no idea what he had done wrong.
The Jews who were taken prisoner, and given unwanted special attention by the Nazis, had no idea what they had done wrong, other than to be distantly related by blood to the Rothschilds and a handful of money lenders and grifters, who had contributed somewhat to the collapse of the European economy- a collapse which would have happened regardless of the level of mercantilism in any one country.
I digress, however. Berga, a small town southeast of Gera, was a satellite station of Buchenwald, the much larger Concentration Camp in northern Thuringia.(Photo courtesy of http://www.freerepublic.com)
Here were brought Jewish soldiers from the US, Canada and Britain, especially after the Battle of the Bulge, in late 1944, when Buchenwald itself was at saturation point. One of these was my future father-in-law, Norman Fellman, 6’3″ tall, weighing into the camp at 175 pounds. He was part of a group assigned to work a gypsum mine. He and his fellows walked up a trail like this, (Photo courtesy of http://www.thirdreichruins.com)
to a place like this (Photo courtesy of http://www.tripmondo.com), every day, for a hundred days. When General Patton’s men found him, in April, 1945, he weighed 87 pounds.
They spent time, after coming back from the mine, in this “work station”. (Photo courtesy of http://www.thirdreichruins.com)
The camp where they were held, from their capture in the Vosges of southern Lorraine, to the date of Gentle George’s arrival, looked something like this. (Photo courtesy of http://www.channelnationalgeographic.com)
Now, the area looks like this. (Photo courtesy of en.immostreet.com)
I walked around this decrepit, southern edge of Berga, even walking the periphery of the abandoned V-1 Rocket Factory, now closed off by a fence, with only a small security team allowed inside. (Photos courtesy of andrea-kublitz.de)
Understandably, Pop never went back to Germany, and the less said about that country in his presence, the better. I told him, two months before he passed on in May, that I intended to go to Berga, to try and put the ghosts to rest. Ghosts, demons, visionaries of Hell- they seem to hang over this part of the town, in a way that the giggling school children who were waiting at Berga Train Station can only dimly imagine. The kids, of course, were waiting for their families, from the north end of town. Few people live in the old camp zone- a farmer or two, perhaps even an aging former guard, released from prison to live out his ignominy.
Berga today remembers its victims and its enslaved “guests”, with this memorial. (www.en.wikipedia.org)
North of the train station, Berga could be Everytown, Deutschland. There is a bright, red Rathaus. (Photo courtesy of http://www.commons.wikipedia.org)
Not far from here, I guided a mother and small child to an ice cream parlour, where I had just stopped, perhaps to comfort myself and return to the more benign reality of this “new” Berga. There are churches nearby as well. I can only imagine what the churches, and the schools, impart to their patrons. Below, is the legacy of Marxism for Berga. These apartments are still highly occupied. (Photo courtesy of http://www.amberrom.org)
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A Sagittarian Seeker 