Over the years I’ve often read analogies describing the aging process. For example, a tree that loses its limbs, and its interior hollows out, is an apt comparison. If the tree matters to us because we remember its being planted, its decline is obvious to us.

Another analogy might be a beloved car in which the engine dies as if it were a human heart no longer able to operate properly and pump blood to parts of a human body. The repairs may be impractical.

Many other analogies serve as reference points as we consider the physical and mental decline of loved ones.

Another comparison is more painful, as I’ve learned in recent months. Our 11-year-old Yellow Labrador Retriever is slowing down and experiencing medical problems. I cannot avoid grieving about an animal so integral to our happiness.

Sandy has swallowing problems that often lead to gagging and sometimes spitting up. She now walks more slowly, sauntering ploddingly on neighborhood walks. We’ve observed more frequent incontinence. She has undergone exams and bloodwork analysis.

This lovable dog is showing her age. So are her owners. We must face our own physical challenges, our own frailties, our own diminution, as we have witnessed hers.

Maybe when we grieve Sandy’s decline, we see our own images. The mirror of animal life reflects an intimate analogy.

Many readers have experienced their own canine losses. Several times in some cases. The pain of losing a beloved member of the family never gets better, regardless of repetition. Memories remain vivid.

My wife and I will continue to love and nurture Sandy, helping her endure her pain and discomfort through medication and care. I’ve begun to store my memories.

The inevitable question posed by friends and family during discussion of Sandy’s increasing frailty: will you get another dog when Sandy dies? I doubt it. Others have told me they had similar reactions; the emotional pain is too great. Then, they often relent. Life without a dog becomes unbearable.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

In past columns, I’ve written that my childhood included no pets. Realizing that her two sons were insufficiently responsible to care for a dog, and knowing she was no lover of these ingratiating creatures, she allowed no pets. Any argument would have been senseless.

I don’t begrudge my mother’s decision. It was wise, I guess, and typically honest. My adult life, however, has been enhanced by the presence of an animal that improves the lives of its owners.

A dog elicits calm, kindness and love. You may pay less attention to your own woes, if only momentarily. You cater to the needs of one of God’s endearing creatures.

This column likely will not be my last about Sandy. I can’t help myself.

Analogies abound about the passage of time. They provide an often painful reminder of our own mortality.  They make joys and upsets more understandable.

I’ll always feel thankful to Sandy and her attention to her human parents as they too exemplify the sad but true effects of aging.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Beaten repeatedly during non-violent civil rights demonstrations in the turbulent 1960s, long-serving Congressman John Lewis (D, GA) had sufficient reason to lead a life filled with bitterness and recrimination. But he didn’t.

Like former slave and abolitionist Frederick Douglass, long-imprisoned anti-apartheid activist Nelson Mandela and Holocaust survivor and Nobel laureate Elie Wiesel, Lewis channeled his anger and passion into advocating for tolerance in a country where bigotry often trumped human compassion.

Lewis died July 17, 2020 at 80 from pancreatic cancer. His strong constitution and rock-solid determination could not overcome an often fatal form of cancer.

During his lifetime, particularly for more than 30 years in the U.S. House of Representatives, Lewis’ voice embodied an impassioned plea for fairness and equality. Democrats and Republicans alike knew that Lewis’ fervent calls for equal voting and housing rights rose from the soul of person who had endured the worst vestiges of crushing segregation and lawless law enforcement. 

Lewis’ words were poignant, personal and searing. He had served bravely in the trenches of the battle for civil rights for people whose only offense was the color of their skin, not the quality of their being. He understood senseless and pervasive bias.

In 1965, as he joined many others in crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, AL, he suffered a fractured skull at the disgraceful hands of a baton-wielding white policeman. 

Some may have abandoned the civil rights movement to tend to physical and emotional scars. But not John Lewis.

When treated for a long time as second-class citizens in a country that prided itself on freedom and liberty for all, many might accept that reality and choose to avoid fighting for equal treatment. After all, progress might have seemed improbable, if not impossible, and often dangerous.

Mandela, who later became president of South Africa, could have lost his will and shriveled up in a brutal prison. He chose to live and change his country.

Douglass could have remained a slave in Talbot County. But instead he escaped and became one of the most highly regarded voices in in the abolitionist movement. 

Wiesel could have accepted what seemed to be an inevitable death sentence in a Nazi killing camp. But he prevailed, determined to survive and tell the story of unconscionable atrocity in his evocative book, “Night.”

It’s clear by now that I unabashedly admire the character and courage of John Lewis and those who preceded him as inhabitants of a cruel reality dictated by soulless people who failed to understand their mean-spirited and often deadly impulses.

On July 30, the New York Times published an essay written by Lewis for publication on the day of his funeral. It bespeaks optimism about the future, as epitomized by the burgeoning Black Lives Movement sparked by the killing in late May of George Floyd by a Minneapolis policeman.

“Though I may not be here with you, I urge you to answer the highest calling of your heart and stand up for what you believe. In my life I have done all I can to demonstrate that the way of peace, the way of love and nonviolence is the most excellent way. Now it is your turn to let freedom ring,” Lewis wrote as he was dying.

Lewis’ simple but eloquent words are open to all of us for interpretation and adherence.

His final words should inspire everyone, regardless of skin color or religion or gender or sexual preference:

“When historians pick up their pens to write the story of the 21st century, let them say that it was your generation who laid down the heavy burdens of hate at last and that peace finally triumphed over violence, aggression and war.”

His language evokes no bitterness, no anger, no spite and retribution. He simply is calling for all Americans to be better.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

 

Movie sequels can be perilous. It’s tough to match the magic of the original tour de force. I doubt whether movie reviews qualify as literary masterpieces.

Nonetheless, again I will share my thoughts, as I did last week, about six movies that have captivated my wife and me, and at other times simply interested us during our partial incarceration after the rude imposition of COVID-19.

One piece of insight into our diverse choices: we’ve often picked an actor/actress as our focal point and then reviewed his/her portfolio of work. As mentioned last week, we steer away from violence (it’s an age thing, I guess) and lean toward happy or redemptive endings (also age-related, I suspect).

Okay, enough with the chatter and onto reviews of six films:

The “Devil Wears Prada” showcases Meryl Streep’s immense talent, her well-acknowledged ability to inhabit any character, whoever that might. In this instance, she portrays a ruthless, driven and self-centered fashion magazine editor who treats her employees poorly and condescendingly. She’s easy to dislike. The movie, which also features Anne Hathaway, succeeds because Streep fills the screen with malice and mastery.

Who would ever think that a movie about a high-school music teacher and his deaf son would be an unforgettable film? Richard Dreyfuss in “Mr. Holland’s Opus” dedicates himself, reluctantly at first, to teach teenagers not only to play but appreciate music, while working decades to compose his own musical creation. He’s a better teacher than he is a father. His classroom also represents his artistic canvass. My wife and I loved this movie.

Robin Williams, known as a comic genius, won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor in “Good Will Hunting, “a riveting psychological drama that brings out the best not only in the normally manic Williams but also Matt Damon. The fraught relationship between the Williams and Damon characters constitutes the major draw to this audience member. South Boston, Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology provide contrasting venues for this film.

On a more subdued scale but no less entertaining than the previous movie, “Shadowlands,” starring Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger, tells the touching story of an unlikely romance between the famed author of Christian fables for children and Oxford University professor, C.S. Lewis, and an American writer and divorcee, Joy Grisham. It’s a wonderful drama that describes an increasingly warm relationship between a lifelong, emotionally detached bachelor and a brash, volatile woman. Did I say we really enjoyed this cinema?

“Monument Men,” directed by and starring George Clooney, is easy to overlook as a quality World War II movie, if it were not for the riveting and revolting tale it tells about the Nazi’s theft of millions and millions of dollars’ worth of world-class art—and the incredible effort by a select group of American soldiers (and art historians) to retrieve the artistic treasures. Performances not only by Clooney but Bill Murray, Matt Damon, John Goodman and Kate Blanchett add to the allure of this underrated movie.

Finally, I can’t stop enjoying “Steel Magnolias,” starring Sally Field, Julia Roberts, Dolly Parton, Olympia Dukakis and the incomparable Shirley MacLaine. Combining pathos, humor, sisterhood, strong-mindedness and small-town Southern charm, this movie grabs your heart and never lets go. The men in this film are mere props to the powerful women.

Our isolation continues. Our need for organic entertainment is now nearing six months. I’m not complaining, just explaining my fascination with fantasy.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Weighed down like so many others in recent months by the constant onslaught of news about the pandemic, aberrant behavior at the White House, social justice protests, economic distress and cyber-terrorism, my wife and I have chosen to immerse ourselves during the evening in the cinematic world. Movies of yore have become our refuge.

We sleep better, unburdened temporarily by worldly concerns. For a few hours, we opt for fiction instead of friction. We thrive on redemptive or happy endings. For the most part, we avoid violence, though not entirely.

One more thing: our age reflects our taste. Some movies are simply distasteful to us. Our 40-ish daughters snicker at our choices.

Escapism is our nightly intent. It calms the nerves and feeds the soul. I’m not suggesting some sort of mystical experience, merely joyfulness provided at a charge by Netflix and Amazon. It’s worth the cost to two senior citizens.

Now, for the moment that you have eagerly awaited: a partial list of our favorites accompanied by comments likely considered sophomoric by the once popular critic-duo (now deceased) of Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert. 

“Officer and Gentlemen,” featuring Richard Gere and Debra Winger, offers a simple plot, strong acting, strenuous military training and gripping drama, with an underlying theme of rising to a higher, respectable social and professional level despite a hard-scrabble upbringing. 

“Rain Man,” featuring Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise, offers an Academy Award performance by the former, who portrayed an autistic adult who garnered the affection of a brother whom he didn’t know, and who learned to love his challenging sibling through arduous trial and error. It’s a truly remarkable film that treats autism in a sensitive way.

“Philomena,” starring the incredibly talented British actress, Judi Dench, tells a heart-rending story about a woman seeking to find a son born out of wedlock whom she had to give up for adoption when he was a baby and she was a teenager. Philomena must deal with a rigidly obdurate group of nuns who run a Catholic convent in Ireland, sacrificing compassion for money paid by rich Americans seeking to adopt Irish babies. The movie grabs and holds onto you for 98 minutes.

Maggie Smith, another absolutely superb British actress—who captivated my wife and me in the “Downton Abbey” as the witty, conniving and imperious Dowager Countess—stars in “Quartet” as a retired opera singer who reluctantly moves into a retirement community in England catering to former music luminaries, including her ex-husband. A scene-stealer in the best of ways, Maggie Smith expertly portrays prima-donnas whose hearts, though mostly hidden, are big and giving.

“Bucket List” with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson is a favorite of ours. The actors are stars for a reason; they infuse their characters with humor and humanity. Their thrilling search for exciting, dangerous ventures as they navigate their imminent deaths as cancer victims paints a picture of pure joy and overwhelming pathos nearly simultaneously. When this movie ends after 97 minutes, these two audience members want to see and feel more the fusion of wild adventure and preparation for mortality.

Finally, “On Golden Pond,” which brought Academy Awards to the renowned Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda, represented on one level an acting masterpiece, while providing insight on another level to emotional distress in facing the deteriorating aspects of aging—and using acerbic language to hide your inner pain. A major element in his engrossing film is a pond filled with memories and family dysfunction.

The fictional lives and personal crises portrayed on the cinematic screen invite viewers to ignore their own worries and health. Movies have always been a refuge for escapism, sometimes in silly, superficial ways. 

The six chosen by this half-baked film critic brought enjoyment to my wife and me. COVID-19, politics, social justice and the economy were on the back-burner.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

 

The number of COVID-19 cases in Talbot County, the state of Maryland and the U.S. is increasing, according to recent news reports. It’s disturbing, though unsurprising.

As of Saturday, July 11,2020, new cases in the country had reached a record daily count of 68,000, according to the New York Times, for a total of 3,353,000 as of July 13. The number of new cases in Florida totaled 15,299, breaking the national record for a state’s largest single-day record in positive coronavirus cases, per The Baltimore Sun.

According to the World Health Organization, as of Friday, July 10, the number of cases worldwide had surpassed for the fifth time in July the previous record of 220,000 cases a day.

According to the Talbot Spy on July 13, total cases in Talbot County numbered 191, an increase of 11 from the previous day. Cases in Maryland totaled 73,527, an increase of 418 in 24 hours, as reported in the July 13 Spy, including six in the past 24 hours.

These statistics reflect more testing, lax restrictions in some states, stubborn refusal by many to wear masks and simply fatigue by Americans to a gross change in lifestyle. Probably a combination of these factors, I suppose.

Like many, I feel a bit discouraged. Common sense—and self-preservation—demanded all of us months ago to respond urgently to a health crisis, the likes of which we had never experienced. This was in early March. And for the most part, we reacted by uniting to fight a potentially fatal disease.

From early March to early June—a brief three months–our country witnessed a surge in selflessness as the novel coronavirus consumed public attention.

We faced an enemy virus and fought it with a fierce determination to “flatten the curve” by wearing masks, sheltering in place and socially distancing ourselves from family members, friends, neighbors and co-workers. Our little space in our revolving world seemingly had come to a screeching stop.

Now. the game has returned to familiar territory: fear and self-monitoring are hovering again over our lives. At least to mine. I’m back to my old caution and concern, though “old” is relative.

What’s surprising is that I don’t mind. This incurable extrovert somehow enjoyed the quiet, punctuated at times by efficient Zoom meetings requiring a more informal dress code (not pajamas, however) and no travel. Takeout meals became joyful experiences, providing a welcome break for my wife in the sometime tedious routine of dinner preparation.

Like others, I savored the slight re-opening of life in June as directed by Gov. Larry Hogan, with restrictions of course and cautious actions taken by sensible business-owners. I sensed a heightened sense of relief among my fellow citizens, while many remained leery of diving back in. I didn’t judge or blame them.

We in our 70s with “underlying medical conditions” justifiably approached a partial return to normal with some trepidation. We would have been foolish to do otherwise. Still, we yearned for human interaction, even if properly distant.

At a time when we must continue to police ourselves and care about others, it’s been trying to observe outright stupidity on the part of those deliberately flouting behaviors harmful to them and others. Dismissive lack of mask-wearing by some begets an angry response by those playing by science-approved rules and guidance.

When we celebrated our independence on July 4th, I suppose we also were granting people the right to act foolishly and irresponsibly. Unfortunately, in current times, this behavior can expose others to the novel coronavirus.

It’s downright selfish.

Narcissism, though totally legal, can have health consequences for those who would prefer to avoid hospitalization and possible death. Freedom has consequences.

Objective experts like Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the U.S. National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Disease, and county health officers like Dr. Frieda Watley, have predicted a surge. And that’s what seems to be happening. Neither medical expert wanted to be right.

Sadly, they can’t prescribe common sense.

I must confess I have returned to working out at a private gym with a personal trainer. Stupid and I’ll-advised? It’s very possible. I weighed the risk and rewards. At nearly 75, a heart attack victim 27 years ago, a prostate cancer survivor and a person afflicted in 2018 and part of 2019 with balance problems, I have reasoned that wisely controlled training twice a week in a mostly unpopulated gym hopefully lengthens my life.

Our lives are in flux. A second COVID-19 surge has materialized. Several states opened up for business prematurely, ignoring medical advice. Maryland, led by Gov. Hogan, reacted early on with inconvenient but sensible restrictions. Hospitalizations decreased. The state then reopened in phases. Cases have risen. The picture is dark.

Our new normal is becoming customary. That’s a tough prognosis.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Were I the Confederate soldier portrayed in life size atop a pedestal in front of Talbot County Courthouse, looking out on the world as it today, I just might say: “Tear me down. Move me somewhere else. I serve no value here. I am viewed as a traitor to my country. By what I represent, I am a divider. Birds might like me. People with consciences and sense of equity do not.”

The Talbot Boys Monument, which contains the names of 84 Confederate veterans of the Civil War, was conceived and funded by people who intended to glorify troops who fought to preserve slavery and gloss over the nefarious institution that defined the South and stained America. 

It is not really history. Instead, it is “spin,’ designed to terrorize African-Americans who had the temerity to believe our nation actually stood for freedom and equality after the Civil War. They were right about our values in 1916, when the statue was dedicated. They are right now. 

Those who have blocked blacks from achieving equal status and well-deserved respect must face facts:

Understandably rocked by the brutal and unnecessary killing of George Floyd by Minneapolis Police on May 25, 2020, black and white citizens are now saying that enough is enough. Senseless, bigoted violence must stop. Police officers who fail to act in a restrained manner must be held accountable.

Removal of the Talbot Boys Monument from public space and the implied endorsement of the “Lost Cause” by Talbot County government and citizens can wait no longer. Vision of an incremental approach, such as display of an interpretive plaque explaining the destructive and subversive effect of secession, no longer would satisfy this writer.

The Confederate cause was propelled by belief in the sanctity of slavery. “Negroes” were second-class citizens whose rightful place in society was to serve white masters and relinquish their humanity.

The tide has turned.

A monument, like others in the South, evokes hostility and hatred on a public square. It serves no useful purpose. White supremacists were wrong in 1914 when construction of the Talbot Boys statue began; their actions belied a generosity of spirit and belief in equality for all. This shameful charade must come to a humane stop.

A statement released last week by the National Trust for Historic Preservation said, “We believe it is past time for us, as a nation, to acknowledge that these symbols (Confederate monuments) do not reflect, and are in fact abhorrent to our values and to our foundational obligation to continue building a more perfect union that embodies equality and justice for all.”

Our severely divided and dysfunctional nation cries out for unity. Confederate monuments divide. They stand out as repudiation of decency and oneness. Masters and slaves not only are archaic; they are anathema to the values that should undergird our democracy. 

Skin color is not a penal sentence to invisibility and mistreatment.

It can’t be. Otherwise, we all are destined to be judged and treated based not on our character and personal quality, but on our defining physical and ethnic differences.

Perhaps no one in recent history has been more eloquent and passionate about the overriding need to remove Confederate statues than former New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu, who spoke about their removal in May 2017. He said:

“We have not erased history; we are becoming part of the city’s history by righting the wrong image these monuments represent and crafting a better, more complete future for all our children and for future generations.

“And unlike when these Confederate monuments were first erected as symbols of white supremacy, we now have a chance to create not only new symbols, but to do it together, as one people. In our blessed land we all come to the table of democracy as equals. We have to reaffirm our commitment to the future where each citizen is guaranteed the uniquely American gifts of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”

These words are powerful ones, beseeching us to be fair and free of irrational hatred and bigotry.

Imagining that I am the Confederate soldier trying to understand our nation as one meant to be unified, not riven by discord and discrimination, I would consider that I served bravely but ill-advisedly. I fought to continue subjugating people based solely on their skin color. I didn’t understand that one nation under God elicits a belief in goodness and grace.

The Talbot Boys Monument must be taken now. It should not involve years of dialogue. 

We’ve had those discussions. It should be moved, not destroyed. 

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

Fifty-two years ago, as a newly-minted college graduate, I realized I was living in a different America. It felt uncomfortable.

In 1968, the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were assassinated, separated by very few months. Riots spread throughout the United States in major cities in response to the hateful killing of King, a civil rights icon. Hopes for a better future vaporized after the murder of Kennedy as he was gathering momentum in his run for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Prospects for victory in Vietnam diminished after the Tet Offensive started in January 1968. Public support of this war and trust in our political leaders substantially weakened as Americans wondered if this Southeast Asian conflict was worth the cost in lives. Strife on college campuses became more and more strident and aggressive. 

A major fatality of the ill-conceived Vietnam War was an alarming fraying of public faith in the policies and veracity of political, military and academic leaders. The culture that I had grown up to respect and admire was falling apart before my eyes.

I was 23, striving to become adult in my behavior and attitudes. The foundation of our country, one that drew my immigrant grandparents to its shores and potential, was unstable and splintering.

As hard as I tried to drum out the discordant noises filling the public discourse in 1968, I could not ignore the discontent and disillusion. 

I hark back to the classic song, “What’s It About Alfie,” performed so eloquently in 1966 by Dionne Warwick. The lyrics touched my generation: “What’s it about, When you sort it out Alfie, Are we meant to take more than give, Or are we meant to be kind?”

The Democratic National Convention in Chicago symbolized the chaos roiling our nation. Young counterculture and anti-war protesters descended upon Chicago and wreaked havoc that stretched the ability of law enforcement agencies to control. Injuries were suffered by 500-plus protestors, 100-plus other civilians and 152 police officers.

And the American watched the mess and conflict on national TV. The optics could not have been worse for the adults supposedly in charge. 

Fast forward to 2020, a year infected by the novel coronavirus and continued killing of blacks by police throughout the country. Add to the dark cloud of uncertainty and fear driven by a virus that has claimed nearly 115,000 lives in our nation and revealed the specter of an incompetent president whose empathy is skin-deep.

The killing of George Floyd, a black man, by a Minneapolis police officer on May 25, 2020, has sparked a flood of protests throughout the U.S. Some have turned ugly with property destruction in its wake. In a few cases, including in Washington, DC and Buffalo, NY, peaceful protesters were injured for unclear reasons.

The tone and content of conversations among white people have changed, prompting a painful look at conscious and unconscious bias. Confederate monuments are facing removal, if not destruction. Names of Army posts, particularly in the south, may be changed, viewed as commemorating the exploits of Confederate generals. 

The upheaval seems effective. Political leaders, except the president, and military officers are eager to remove the stain of racism.

Both the pandemic and the reaction to Floyd’s killing have revealed a schism between the haves and the have-nots. Economic and medical inequality have surfaced like a cloud-burst. COVID-19 has had a disproportionate impact on African-American families due in part to economic inequality: blacks working in hospitals, nursing homes and grocery stores have faced greater exposure to the disabling virus than whites able to work well-paid jobs from home.

Though 2020 is five-and-a half months from coming to a merciful end. I believe that our current social and political turmoil is equally as disruptive to our norms of fairness and decency, as was the case in 1968. While the assassination of Dr. King struck like an earthquake, with the murder of Sen. Kennedy feeling like a severe aftershock, I think that the horrific death of George Floyd may have the same effect on our collective soul-searching. 

We cannot ignore our nation’s diminishing reservoir of decency and compassion. 

We cannot escape the continuing blemish of racism.

We cannot retreat into our tribal connections and forget those not so fortunate to enjoy a network of professional and personal support.

We cannot be blind to inequity.

We cannot chase away our better angels.

We cannot underestimate the power of “us,” instead of “me.”

The years 1968 and 2020 seem awfully similar; 52 years brought changes, but not enough.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.

 

As you walk the beach at Vierville-sur-Mer, you marvel at the serene beauty, topped by imposing bluffs.

You noticed that this peaceful Normandy, France beach has a monument amid the tranquility, dedicated to National Guard soldiers who landed there on D-Day, June 6, 1944. Many met death or maiming on that beach, which is better known as the code-named Omaha Beach.

You walk along the beach, and your imagination takes hold. How did any soldier escape that beach 76 years ago unhurt? How was that possible?

In the adjacent town of Colleville-sur-Mer, you encounter the beautifully manicured Normandy American Cemetery, populated by roughly 9,300 white marble crosses and Stars of David. At first you’re impressed by the extreme care and attention bestowed on the hallowed ground. Then, you face reality. 

Thousands of young men, many from Maryland and Virginia, never rejoined their families and friends at home. They had participated in the greatest amphibious assault in military history.

In 1994, the 50th anniversary of D-Day, I accompanied veterans of the famed 29th Infantry Division (Blue and Gray). They were men in their 70s. Some had walkers. They all had memories of their dead buddies.

Many cried. It was their last farewell in most cases to men who fought together during the treacherous Normandy Campaign.  The veterans had witnessed horrific human destruction. Omaha Beach was a killing field that they would never forget.

A surprise assault in Normandy, instead of the expected Calais, benefitted the Allied forces. Still, German firepower took its toll.

I’m unsure whether the citizen soldiers understood the enormity of their mission on D-Day. They struck a blow, like no other, for freedom and democracy. 

They fought for their country; they fought for their comrades-in-arms. They overcame fear. They were brave, relentless souls.

They were young men. That’s always the case. Many had children whom they had never met.

On a visit to Normandy in 1988, I walked around a small cemetery in Normandy containing the graves of German soldiers. They too were young, some 18 or 19. Did they embrace the Nazi vision of a great white, Aryan race, or did they serve because they had no choice?

Memories of past wars, including great victories and ignominious defeats, may fade, overcome by daily concerns and everyday calamities. Some memories, however, deserve to be emblazoned on our collective memory.

Waves of soldiers assaulted the French resort beach on an overcast morning, delivered by U.S. Navy landing boats. Some Navy boat commanders moved in as far as they could; many did not because of the overwhelming German firepower.

The beach became littered with bodies and frightened soldiers. Chaos reigned as it often does at the beginning of combat despite exhaustively designed plans. Reality often overcomes hope.

I’ve written before about Harold Baumgartner, an enlisted man badly wounded and evacuated to England. He later became a family practice doctor in Jacksonville, FL. He told me that his wartime experience prompted him to provide health care paid sometimes by patients with vegetables and fruit.

Were I to walk Omaha Beach again, I would continue to be unable to forget the personal destruction that imposed itself 76 years ago on a waterfront slice of sand and rocks. I will remember forever the battle-hardened veterans who walked tearfully through the rows of a lovely, well-kept and somber cemetery on the French coast. Their generation typically did not show emotion.

D-Day, June 6,1944, brought the beginning of the end for the Third German Reich at an incalculable human cost.

Columnist Howard Freedlander retired in 2011 as Deputy State Treasurer of the State of Maryland. Previously, he was the executive officer of the Maryland National Guard. He also served as community editor for Chesapeake Publishing, lastly at the Queen Anne’s Record-Observer. In retirement, Howard serves on the boards of several non-profits on the Eastern Shore, Annapolis and Philadelphia.