Remembering a hero.

With this coming Sunday being July 4, it started me thinking about my father, William Brian Oglesby, Sr.  He was born in 1920 and died in 1972.   My mom called him either Billy or Honey and they genuinely loved each other. We never knew anything other than a stable family life.

We boys, there are four of us, all knew him as daddy.  Just a normal guy who worked on cars for a living, loved to have a good time and loved our mother.  But there were some other chapters of his life before we were born that he rarely talked about.  In many ways I now think of him as a true war hero.  He didn’t win a lot of medals and made no daring battlefield stands, but his ordeal in WWII must have been pretty harrowing.  He was severely wounded in battle and captured in France by the Germans in late 1944.  He lost a few fingers and had pretty severe scarring on other parts of his body.  He also spent some time in POW camps, but was eventually repatriated because he was no longer capable of combat.

He rarely, almost never, talked about his military time.  When he did, it was usually of fond memories of friends.  One rare time he did mention his time in captivity, he made note of the fact that he was held in Stalag 13, and that only because that was the prison camp where Hogan’s Heroes, a popular television series during my youth, were interred.

My family doesn’t seem to know much about our history and we don’t have a lot of tangible artifacts to connect with the past, but I am fortunate enough to possess the telegrams my grandmother received during the days of my father’s war experience.  When I read them I can only imagine a mother’s anguish of hearing the news that her only son is missing in action.  I’m sure she was desperate to know more, but as you can see from the telegram below, there was no more.  Just, that her son is missing in action.

Then, almost a month later she learns that he is a prisoner of war.  Again, no more details.  I’m sure she prayed for him daily.  Since my family never talked about these telegrams or these experiences, I can only guess that they had no more information than what can be found on these three sheets of paper.

A few months later she learns that he is coming home.  What joy that must have been.  But, joy tempered with sorrow.  He’s coming home because he is injured so badly that he can no longer be of use to the war effort.  What happened to him?  How bad is he?  I’m sure these thoughts raced through her mind.  The third telegram gave no details, just that he would be in the hospital and that she would not be allowed to even greet him as he arrived.  In typical military indifference they even referred to him as her husband.  On a side note, my father’s father had died at least 15 years prior to that and she had remarried.

I’ve also included here the Allied Personnel Repatriation Tag that was attached to his stretcher when they brought him off the ship in New York.  It contains almost all the information I know about my father’s six years of military service.  These are treasures for me.  A few brittle scraps of 65 year old paper that give me a connection to my dad, a true war hero.

I don’t know the story of how my mom and dad got together, they are both gone now and I can’t ask.  But I do know they weren’t married during WWII, but my mom should also be mentioned for her service in the Women’s Army Corps.

Yeah, I'm a dog guy

Ok, I admit it, I’m a dog person.  I just love dogs and have had one or more living with me most of my life.  Sometimes I think that dogs are close to being God’s most perfect creation.  Think about it, they don’t worry about much of anything, never seem to hold a grudge, truly want to make you happy and love unconditionally.  What more could you ask for?

For most of my life, there as been a dog living with me.  The first one was Tiny.  I don’t remember much about him but I do remember him and how much I loved him.

My dog now is Sophie, a great companion and hiking buddy.  I’m not sure what her breeding is since she was an apparent orphan found wandering in a parking garage downtown.  When people ask what kind of a dog she is, I usually just say, “a black one.”  That’s about all I know.  Perhaps some terrier, but who knows and who cares?  That’s how it’s been with all but one of my dogs, they were strays that just wandered up or puppies from mixed-breed litters that people were desperate to give away. 

The lady that found her refers to her as a rags-to-riches story.  We are not rich by human standards, but in dog currency she is wealthy.  She has people who love her, a warm bed and treat every night at bedtime and she gets to take a long walk in the park and “hunt” squirrels several days a week.  Not only that, but she has her own back yard with critters in the woods to bark at just on the other side of the fence.

Sometimes I wonder about her early life.  She doesn’t seem to have been abused, but she doesn’t seem to have received much affection either. While she loves to be in my presence, either lying nearby in the studio, going anywhere in the car or, best of all, going for a walk in the woods, she is not one to be petted or lie next to me on the sofa.  Maybe that’s part of our kindred spirit.  We’re not touchy-feely.

One thing, as a photographer, I wish was different.  I wish she were brown.  Black dogs are just harder to photograph.  Brown dogs show up so much better in pictures.  But, she is mine and I wouldn’t trade her for all the brown dogs in town.

The day my life changed.

It was 1968, I was a new kid at school and was on my first band trip.  I was in the eleventh grade.  We were headed to Washington, D.C. to march in the Cherry Blossom Festival.  My family had recently moved to the area and I had only been in the band a month or so, but I had noticed the band secretary from my back-row seat in the trumpet section as she carried out her duties in the front of the room.  Besides being secretary, she played saxophone and sat a few rows in front of me.

A few hours into our train ride I went looking for the few guys I had gotten to know - we had planned to play cards on the long trip. When I got to where they were the only seat available was next to her.  What should I do?  Then she said, "sit down, I don't bite."

Funny how I still remember those first words she spoke to me after over forty  years.  But, then that was the day my life changed.  I never went out with anyone else, we went to the junior and senior proms together.  In fact we've never been apart since that day.

We graduated high school together, and were married one year to the day from graduation.  And that only because her mother insisted we wait a year to see if we were still together.  You know how those teenage romances are.  June 12, 2010 was our fortieth wedding anniversary. I guess it's going to work out after all.

We currently have two grown and married children that we are immensely proud of and three wonderful grandchildren and one due to arrive in July.  Like I said, that was the day that my life changed and it couldn't have been a better ride so far.

The photo posted above was made on that train ride the day I was invited to sit by her.  It's easy to see from that smile why I jumped at the chance.

Below is a short slide show highlighting our time together.