Memorial Day editorial from the Chicago Tribune

Hoist a glass for Red today


The primary purpose of Memorial Day is to honor those who have sacrificed their
lives to defend this country.

There have, though, been many millions of others who gave portions of their
lives to warfare, but survived. This day is theirs, too.

Most, like a former Chicagoan named Red Madsen, have come home from wars to lead
ordinary lives. Not that their lives are the same as they would have been if
they hadn't seen the bloodshed, the shattered lives, the lonely deaths. Many
carry to the grave more unspoken memories than they'd like. Those memories help
shape, often profoundly, who they are and what they believe. And yet when the
time comes to write their obituaries, their military service and all it meant to
them get reduced to a few lines.

Not so with Red. When he died almost eight years ago, his daughter, Patricia,
wrote an obit that wove Red's military experience into the rest of his life. She
knew he had advanced, island by island, with U.S. troops approaching Japan in
the weeks before two atomic bombs ended World War II. Not until after Red's
death, though, did she learn that he had earned a Bronze Star for combat
heroism. He'd never mentioned it.

The obit was submitted to the Des Moines Register, where it charmed a young
reporter who came across it. He shared it with a few friends. Since then,
ever-fainter photocopies have quietly circulated throughout the Midwest. Here,
with Patricia Anne Madsen's permission, is an excerpt from her celebration of
her father's life:

Harry N. "Red" Madsen, 76, retired railroad brakeman, died Sept. 15, 1996, in
Audubon, Iowa, 13 miles from where he was born. After graduating from Audubon
High School, he moved to Chicago. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, he enlisted in the
Army, which put him in the Signal Corps. During training, he met Betty Kaplan of
Brooklyn, N.Y., and married her in Stuart, Fla., before he was shipped to the
Pacific. When the Army finally let Red go in 1946, he and Betty settled in
Chicago. He returned to Audubon and Westphalia, Iowa, working as a custom
butcher. He later worked the railroad, most of the time for the Chicago &
Northwestern. He married three times, with two of his spouses passing away.

Red Madsen loved his wives, his kids, everybody else's kids, his family, dogs,
fishing, whittling, doodling, reading (especially Mark Twain), Cord automobiles,
hoisting a few with friends and telling stories. It pleased him that mischief
might break out at any time, but it distressed him if anyone got hurt by it,
unless maybe it was some powerful S.O.B. who deserved it. He hated hypocrisy,
racial injustice (or any other kind), war and giving orders. He worked hard,
played hard, loved hard, and there was not much in the world that didn't
interest him. If he knew you could use $20 and he had it to give, you'd have it.
He despised locks and rarely used them--liked to say that if some poor so-and-so
needed something that badly, he shouldn't have to break in, too.

He left very little behind except exasperated commanders, bemused bosses,
charmed waitresses and a special place in the heart of nearly everyone who ever
met him, all of whom are happy he has been released from pain and sorry as hell
to lose him.

Contributions may be made as follows: Hoist one in Red's memory and overtip the
waitress by a fair factor. If you can't stop at one, just overtip the
waitress--she needs it more than you. Give a bum a dollar, maybe five, and for
once, don't worry about what he'll do with it. Learn something new. Make a fool
of yourself so a child will laugh. Help get food to the hungry and don't worry
about whether they deserve it. Don't worry about being safe.

In fact, don't waste much energy worrying at all. Let life break your heart, and
not just once. Love your neighbor and yourself and your God, if you're lucky
enough to have one, with your whole heart. Every now and then, when no one is
looking, go ahead and pick a flower you're not supposed to pick, but quick as
you can, give it to someone. Remember, the second year the same person plants
sweet corn next to where you work, they must mean for you to have some, because
they know what happened last year.

And if someone uses a racial epithet around you, let 'em know that you'd just as
soon they didn't, because Red Madsen and a lot of other guys got shot at by
people who thought that way, and you don't want to be on the same side as
anybody who would take a shot at Red.

----------

This editorial first appeared in the Tribune on May 28, 2001.

From: Ken Fortenberry

Here's to you, Red.


George Adams

"All good fishermen stay young until they die, for fishing is the only dream of
youth that doth not grow stale with age."
---- J.W Muller

Thank God we have lots of fine Americans like old Red.

--
Bill Kiene

Kiene's Fly Shop
Sacramento, CA, USA

Web site: www.kiene.com


"Ken Fortenberry" wrote in message
m...

Hoist a glass for Red today


The primary purpose of Memorial Day is to honor those who have sacrificed
their
lives to defend this country.

There have, though, been many millions of others who gave portions of
their
lives to warfare, but survived. This day is theirs, too.

Most, like a former Chicagoan named Red Madsen, have come home from wars
to lead
ordinary lives. Not that their lives are the same as they would have been
if
they hadn't seen the bloodshed, the shattered lives, the lonely deaths.
Many
carry to the grave more unspoken memories than they'd like. Those memories
help
shape, often profoundly, who they are and what they believe. And yet when
the
time comes to write their obituaries, their military service and all it
meant to
them get reduced to a few lines.

Not so with Red. When he died almost eight years ago, his daughter,
Patricia,
wrote an obit that wove Red's military experience into the rest of his
life. She
knew he had advanced, island by island, with U.S. troops approaching Japan
in
the weeks before two atomic bombs ended World War II. Not until after
Red's
death, though, did she learn that he had earned a Bronze Star for combat
heroism. He'd never mentioned it.

The obit was submitted to the Des Moines Register, where it charmed a
young
reporter who came across it. He shared it with a few friends. Since then,
ever-fainter photocopies have quietly circulated throughout the Midwest.
Here,
with Patricia Anne Madsen's permission, is an excerpt from her celebration
of
her father's life:

Harry N. "Red" Madsen, 76, retired railroad brakeman, died Sept. 15, 1996,
in
Audubon, Iowa, 13 miles from where he was born. After graduating from
Audubon
High School, he moved to Chicago. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, he enlisted
in the
Army, which put him in the Signal Corps. During training, he met Betty
Kaplan of
Brooklyn, N.Y., and married her in Stuart, Fla., before he was shipped to
the
Pacific. When the Army finally let Red go in 1946, he and Betty settled in
Chicago. He returned to Audubon and Westphalia, Iowa, working as a custom
butcher. He later worked the railroad, most of the time for the Chicago &
Northwestern. He married three times, with two of his spouses passing
away.

Red Madsen loved his wives, his kids, everybody else's kids, his family,
dogs,
fishing, whittling, doodling, reading (especially Mark Twain), Cord
automobiles,
hoisting a few with friends and telling stories. It pleased him that
mischief
might break out at any time, but it distressed him if anyone got hurt by
it,
unless maybe it was some powerful S.O.B. who deserved it. He hated
hypocrisy,
racial injustice (or any other kind), war and giving orders. He worked
hard,
played hard, loved hard, and there was not much in the world that didn't
interest him. If he knew you could use $20 and he had it to give, you'd
have it.
He despised locks and rarely used them--liked to say that if some poor
so-and-so
needed something that badly, he shouldn't have to break in, too.

He left very little behind except exasperated commanders, bemused bosses,
charmed waitresses and a special place in the heart of nearly everyone who
ever
met him, all of whom are happy he has been released from pain and sorry as
hell
to lose him.

Contributions may be made as follows: Hoist one in Red's memory and
overtip the
waitress by a fair factor. If you can't stop at one, just overtip the
waitress--she needs it more than you. Give a bum a dollar, maybe five, and
for
once, don't worry about what he'll do with it. Learn something new. Make a
fool
of yourself so a child will laugh. Help get food to the hungry and don't
worry
about whether they deserve it. Don't worry about being safe.

In fact, don't waste much energy worrying at all. Let life break your
heart, and
not just once. Love your neighbor and yourself and your God, if you're
lucky
enough to have one, with your whole heart. Every now and then, when no one
is
looking, go ahead and pick a flower you're not supposed to pick, but quick
as
you can, give it to someone. Remember, the second year the same person
plants
sweet corn next to where you work, they must mean for you to have some,
because
they know what happened last year.

And if someone uses a racial epithet around you, let 'em know that you'd
just as
soon they didn't, because Red Madsen and a lot of other guys got shot at
by
people who thought that way, and you don't want to be on the same side as
anybody who would take a shot at Red.

----------

This editorial first appeared in the Tribune on May 28, 2001.

On Mon, 31 May 2004 12:53:28 GMT, Ken Fortenberry
wrote:

Wonderful.

I like his attitude. I'd almost certainly have liked him. I'm sure I
like the daughter who wrote it.



--

rbc:vixen,Minnow Goddess,Willow Watcher,and all that sort of thing.
Often taunted by trout.
Only a fool would refuse to believe in luck. Only a damn fool would rely on it.

http://www.visi.com/~cyli