An Obituary

An Obituary

This year, shortly after all the Christmas cards had been opened, examined and discussed, another card arrived. This one, an orphan among all the others from friends and family, was noteworthy in both its late arrival and the return address that indicated a sender unknown to either Marjorie or me. It came from Hudson, Mi. We looked at each other quizzically. Marjorie opened and then passed it over to me with a two word explanation, “an obituary.”


I put the letter and card away only to retrieve it and re-read it again yesterday. This obituary and the related story is too good for a single reading, I thought. It deserves sharing among friends. Here it is:


Phyllis (Uhl) Bradford was born April 30, 1923 in Kendallville, Indiana. She had a single sister and brother, Dorothy and Robert Uhl. (For unexplained reasons), she spent her school years on her grandparent’s farm, near Hudson, Michigan.


Phyllis was a bright young girl. Her teachers noted how fast she learned and it soon became apparent that she was ahead of all her peers even at an early age. She was promoted from 1^st grade into the 3^rd, and then again from 5^th to 7^th. She graduated from Hudson High School at age 16 as the valedictorian. In later years when she didn’t know something that her husband thought she should have, he jokingly told her “You would have learned that in 6^th grade.”


After Phyllis graduated from high school, she moved from the farm and joined her mother who was living in Detroit. Phyllis found work with a company that did bookkeeping and taxes for small companies that needed help. The work was enjoyable for her and she stayed on as World War II began. The newspaper stories about the war made Phyllis think about serving her country. The Marine Corps created the Marine Corps Women's Reserve in 1943, allowing women to serve. A lady named Ruth Cheney Streeter was its first director. Under her leadership, over 20,000 women Marines served in World War II, in over 225 different specialties. The women marines filled 85 percent of the enlisted jobs at Marine Corps Headquarters and comprised one-half to two-thirds of the permanent personnel at major Marine Corps posts. However, it was not until after World War II, in 1948, that the Women's Armed Services Integration Act of 1948 gave women permanent status in the Regular and Reserve forces of the Marines.

Phyllis spent 25 months as an active duty soldier. Her duty was a payroll clerk at the large base in San Diego. Phyllis spent much of her free time playing on the base basketball and baseball teams. It was the beginning of a love affair with sports that she maintained her entire life. Phyllis said the uncertainty of the war made her two -year stint in San Diego the longest period of her life, although she enjoyed the camaraderie of the Corp and the sports.


After the war ended, Phyllis returned to Michigan and enrolled in Wayne State University under the provisions of the GI Bill. She earned her degree from Wayne, graduating as an accountant. She quickly found work in her field and began employment in the area. Over time, she worked at several small businesses, helping each firm with their payroll and taxes
.

Phyllis attended a Unitarian Church in Detroit. One Sunday she was in line for coffee when the person behind her said hello. It was the beginning of a love affair for the attractive, youngish woman who was just shy of her 40^th birthday. The man who captivated her interest was a school teacher, a man named Bradford who had left the farm in Ohio, but the farm had never left him. They married in 1963 just after Phyllis’ 40^th birthday. Don Bradford accepted a job teaching elementary school in the Clarkston School District.


Our paths converged while he taught at the Andersonville Elementary in 1967 when a newly-wed young lady, wife Marjorie, joined the school district and occupied a classroom near Don’s. Marjorie and I both worked during this period, and she found Don’s offer of a ride to school helpful since both the Tudor family and the Bradford family were close-by neighbors in the rural area of Davisburg, Michigan. Soon enough, the two couples became a foursome at occasional school functions or other events thus uniting the four of us in a lasting friendship.


Don’s farming-related hobbies enlarged to become Phyllis’s preoccupations as well. When he raised pigeons, Phyllis helped in preparing the birds for the dinner table. When he wrote and produced a family newspaper, “The Bradfordville News.” Phyllis was editor, printer and helpful distributor. The hobbies occupied their summertime’s as they temporarily moved from their Big Lake home to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where they could raise sheep until the schoolyear began anew. Another newspaper ensued, “Sheep Tales” and Phyllis resumed her duties in the world of tiny newspapers.


Time intervened in their love affair as the senior Don began to show his age. He passed quietly at home. Although his funeral service was conducted by Unitarian lady minister, Phyllis took charge at the end, thanking those who attended, assuring mourners that she could handle things from now on, and was there anyone in the audience who wanted to take home one of the beautiful baskets of flowers? It seemed a fitting ending as the enterprising Phyllis went on with her life.


Don’s passing was only a temporary hurdle for Phyllis. She discarded the old hobbies from Don and renewed her devotion to sports. She began anew by playing basketball, volleyball, baseball, softball and bowling. Trophies began to pile up at the old house she and Don shared across the road from Big Lake. She was Senior Olympics free throw gold medalist for Michigan, and her volleyball team became National Senior Olympics Champions.


As her generation began to pass into obscurity and World War II vets began to die off, Phyllis began to wonder what she ought to do to assure a gradual transition into the cares of old age. The demands of living alone seemed to increase as time passed and she ultimately decided to take a step backwards in time by renewing her association with the United States Military.


The United States military has a checkered history when it comes to caring for its troops. Until late in the Civil War, troops who were injured on the field of battle were on their own. Only cursory care was given to those wounded, most were sent home to be cared for by their relatives, and stipends for their care were available only after many had already expired from their injuries.

The American troops who served in the 1845 Mexican-American War were among those who were subjected to such shabby and limited care until their commander, General Winfield Scott, began a campaign to change things for his men. After Scott’s army drubbed the Mexicans in a decisive battle, he sued for peace. His terms were onerous, the Mexicans had to pay a brutal war reparation or he threatened to lay siege to Mexico City. Scott demanded a payment of $150,000, a formidable fortune in those days. The Mexicans yielded and Scott left the city intact and returned home where he used part of the money to pay off his troops and purchase new supplies for the remainder of his army.


Scott returned to Washington and met with Congress. He told them he wanted to see to the well-being of his retiring troops, some of whom were injured and devoid of any means to earn a living and some who had no family to return to. “I want you to build an Old Soldiers Home for these deserving men with the balance of these funds,” Scott demanded from the Congress. He left unsaid what he might do with the money if Congress failed to meet his demands. In the end, Congress appropriated enough money to purchase a farm northwest of the city of Washington for Scott’s Old Soldiers Home. Housing began to take shape for the old troopers. One of the earliest residents of the property was President Abraham Lincoln who had a summer home built there. The Old Soldiers Home grew as vets from around the country began to learn of the facility for retired military.


The retired Marine Phyllis had never lost her patriotic fervor and she decided to leave her Michigan home forever and take up residence at the Old Soldiers Home in 2007. Some years after she moved, Marjorie and I went to see her. She arranged for us to stay at the home in their modest guest quarters. Our first hand inspection and three-day visit showed the wisdom of General Scott. The rooms were small, but adequate, and the buildings were old and somewhat out of date, as might be expected for an old facility. The dining area had the look of a college dining hall and everywhere there were volunteers from among the ‘old soldiers’ who lived there.

The home is located on beautiful property that features ball fields and a host of other recreational facilities. Phyllis was in her element. Her favorite memory was the time she was served her dinner by President Barack Obama and wife Michelle. Phyllis kept busy as a volunteer at the Home. She continued her sports career and served as the manager of the Home’s bowling alley and kept the books for the souvenir shop.


After our visit to the Home, we never saw Phyllis again although we exchanged letters in our Christmas cards every year. Phyllis’s card was always the first to arrive and she invariably recounted her athletic endeavors in her letter tucked inside the card. Although her hand writing became a test to decipher, her friendship and determination always showed through. This year, Phyllis’s card did not arrive in early December. Instead, we found a kind note from one of Phyllis’s nephews, dated several days after Christmas. The note was terse: “Phyllis passed away June 27, 2019 in Washington D. C. She was 96 years of age. She has been cremated and her ashes will be in the Memorial Garden at the Unitarian Universalist Church Flint Michigan.”


We will miss Phyllis. Her devotion to her husband and her country were inspiring and her friendship was enduring. Sometimes life is hard.

Welcome to the new year and this report of my recent activities.

From Curmudgeon to Fixin’ Problems

I wanted you to know that I have taken on a new hobby in addition to my regular work of overseeing my neighborhood. That, and keeping my coffee-drinkin’ buddies informed of neighborhood skullduggery used to be my sole occupation until I decided on new work that has the decidedly larger potential of saving the world.


My new pastime is needed because of ill-informed people like I us’ta be. You can see right off that this new hobby requires a lot of time and effort. It’s jus’ a good thing that retiree’s like me have the time, dedication, and experience to settin’ things right that youngsters nowadays jus’ don’t have. Of course, the problem is that youngsters are runnin’ things.


The problem that I have dedicated my time to is straws. Yes, straws. Did you know that straws are a world-wide problem? We use billions and billions of straws in the US not to mention the additional gazillions used world-wide. They are everywhere. And that is the problem: straws end up polluting our rivers, lakes and oceans.

California tried to solve the straw problem earlier this year by passing a bill that would have outlawed single-use plastics. “California proposes phaseout of single-use plastics by 2030” their headlines screamed. The bill that young legislators in California proposed would have outlawed plastic water bottles, plastic utensils, carry-out plastic bowls from fast food places, plastic bags and, importantly, straws.


You might know that California already has instituted a ban on plastic straws for restaurant use. This has provoked a resurgence of, can you guess? PAPER STRAWS. The very same that you and I used throughout our high school years at the soda shop after school. Whoever decided to replace paper straws with plastic really screwed up things. Why, I just watched a vet removing a plastic straw from the nose of a threatened sea turtle who had no use for the thing at all as blood streamed from the nostrils of the poor critter.


Some while ago, the world press and our ‘fake news’ became aware of a floating island of plastic trash between Hawaii and California. It was found swirling in the ocean currents, stuck in one place, hidden from all but a few intrepid sailors who happened upon a mess that was larger than the state of Texas. Texas, that is. Now there is not one of these gyres, but three. The aforementioned one and two others further south of more recent origin. All are expanding at a rapid rate, and ocean vessels are advised to steer clear of the trash that is killing ocean birds and fishes at an alarming rate. 

The mass of materials in the gyre includes plastics of all types, sizes, shapes and colors and all of it floats, either upon the surface of the ocean or slightly below. One of the shapes floating along serenely are our friendly straws, bobbing along happily, an emblematic representation of our practice involving use, toss, forget, then look the other way when a plastic mess ends up in the ocean.


The plastics industry in the US is alarmed by the California proposal of banning some small portion of their output. Their trade association has weighed into the controversy. Faced with the epic proportions of the problem, the American Chemistry Council (representing resin manufacturers) offered a solution that fooled no one. “We’d welcome the opportunity to work with [California] Senator Allen and all stakeholders on efforts to recycle and recover more plastic material so that it doesn’t become waste or ocean litter.” Sure, and we should all clean our plates at each meal.


Available data indicates that American consumers are lousy at recycling. We recycle plastics at a rate of about 10% depending upon the region of the country and that region’s aggressiveness in recycling. This disappointing rate of recycling has remained relatively constant since the beginnings of the plastic industry with 90% of the material that has ever been produced (millions and millions of pounds) being discarded, much of it being sent to landfills. Recycling is not the answer. Our current paltry efforts of recycling plastics have gotten worse not better, since a year or so ago the Chinese began refusing to accept any plastics for re-use from the US due to contamination.


The plastic industry has now confirmed that the plastics stored in our landfills is likely to last forever since the landfills are sealed after they become full; hence the plastics are not subject to weathering. The question is, when will all those discarded plastic straws, bottles and other doodads become too much for us? Since it is clear to me that the plastics industry is unwilling and unable to mount any solutions that might reduce their profit bonanza, I decided to step in with my own reasoned suggestions. I forwarded my solutions to the governing officials in the State of Michigan via a letter to their Director. Amazingly, the Director hasn’t yet found time to call me about my suggestions despite the brilliance of both the ideas and the epistle upon which the ideas were recorded. Will wonders never cease?


My common-sense proposals centered on legislative action to enforce return and reuse of plastics. I pointed to the success of Michigan’s bottle deposit law and how simple it would be to update and extend the bottle return law to other plastic containers and increase the size of the deposit from its current measly 10 cents to an inflation-adjusted 38 cents per bottle. “Michigan should reclaim its mantle of environmental leadership across the nation!” I exclaimed with what I hoped who be interpreted as a shout out.


My exclamations apparently didn’t move the Director to action. Accordingly, I decided on a new tack, this one exclusively in my control. Effective immediately, my betrothed and I have sworn off the use of plastic straws and plastic lids at our neighborhood McDonalds and Subway, the only options available to us. No more of our debris from this source will be going to a local landfill. I am expecting that my leadership will catch on and we’ll soon see the end of plastic straws and similar useless containers.


So, think of me if you happen to see someone spilling his drink because it is lidless and strawless. Further, if he has a stain on his shirt from previous spilled drinks like I do, you’ll know my idea is finally catching on. Feel free to join in and be a stained shirt kind of guy like me.


Bill