Story of an "unknown" soldier.....

OK, now here’s the story about that headstone.


Back in late summer my kids, mother and I went to Resurrection Cemetery to pay respect to my grandfather.
Now mind you, he’s not my biological grandfather, but treated me and my brother like we were his biological grandkids. He and my non-biological grandmother loved us, doted on us (well, him more than her but…that’s ok, eh?) took care of us, was supportive of us, gave us gifts…you know what I mean; what a grandparent should do.


So along with us looking at the gravesites of him, our grandmother, some aunts and uncles from my step-father’s side of the family my mother attempted to find other family members from that side of the family that were buried along the “old part” of the cemetery.
We got all mixed up there, lost in a way.


Well, not lost where we wouldn’t be able to find our way out of the cemetery but we drove, and drove…and drove more according to mom’s orders: “Here! It’s by that huge statue! No wait! Turn left here NOW! Wait! Stop! No, wait…go straight! It’s near the tiny mausoleum! No, wait!” Oh, my….goodness! So here I am, in my car on a warm day with the ADHD kids, mother and dog, driving all over Resurrection Cemetery listening to “mi general” threatening to leave her here with her boyfriend the Cucuy because she’s making me waste gas driving for almost an hour in a cemetery looking for a grave!
After taking a deep breath and realizing how funny it would be me explaining to my tias why I left mom in a cemetery I started to notice in the “old side” of the cemetery there were headstones that had birthdates in the 1800s. I then had the kids and mom and the dog play a game to be distracted with the anxiety I had caused by Mrs Cucuy. I shouted, “HEY! Let’s play a game! Who can find the oldest headstone with the earliest birthdate!
I know, right? Some game for the whole family, eh? “Come on, everyone! We’re going to the cemetery to play momma’s favorite game, “FIND THE EARLIEST BIRTHDATE ON HEADSTONES!”


Yes, Halloween is our favorite holiday, we love the Munsters, Addams Family, Svengoolie and I have skulls all over the house. We may be slightly clinically macabre, but it was a pretty good idea because instead of the kids fighting over which side of the back seat was theirs and which side the dog could drool on, they shut the heck up and were hanging out the car windows looking for dates on headstones. We were shouting out dates “1901! 1843! 1871(which made my daughter excited because she studied about the Great Chicago Fire which occurred in 1871…read a book, y’all) and debating who had the earliest date with the person who finds that stone must point it out to us. After this went on for a bit we were near an area my mother “THOUGHT” was where this mysterious gravestone was as she suddenly shouted “STOP HERE!”


Orale.


I stop the car; slowly turn my head to her and she, totally oblivious of my annoyance glibly asked me and my daughter to venture out to look for the name on the “brown” headstones.


I thought, ok; I’ll stretch my legs a bit and get the kid some exercise to chill her out as well….but then I wondered if my mother would drive away and leave me with the Cucuy as I threatened her repeatedly, so I took the keys, my daughter and trekked down a row of stones.
We were looking for the name mom told us, admiring the craftsmanship of these amazing monuments that were created to remind loved ones of their deceased family members. There were such amazing carvings of angels, saints, Jesus and Mary with gemstones tucked in some of the stones…I felt like I was in an outdoor art museum for masonry.


And the dates on these stones! 1849, 1877, 1861, 1865…I mean, we were looking at history! I was tempted to go to the local grocery store for parchment and crayons! Anyone else macabre like me will know why one would use crayons and parchment paper in a cemetery.


Then, as my daughter won the game with the earliest birth headstone (1843) I came across this very simple and old stone.


It reminded me of the headstones they use in both Arlington National Cemetery in DC and the fallen from D-Day in Normandy, France. It was very simple, plain, rectangle. It was a basic, white military headstone. Well, should have been white but was filthy with age. It was difficult to see the date as it was at the bottom of the stone with chunky dirt at the bottom that was so thick and caked on, it was like moving hardened cement. I genuinely tried to move some to see the date but just got my fingernails full of dirt.


I was so touched by the simplicity of this military stone and felt compelled to take a picture of it. It also made me sad that there was no one in this person’s family to visit and pray, to leave flowers or an American flag, or to even tend to the gravesite.


I forgot about that photo until today when I was cleaning out my phone and happened upon it, so with that in mind, I not only felt my history “boner” get on (yes, I’m vulgar…no apologies) to research this individual who lived a long time ago in our galaxy, but felt that it’s my small, patriotic duty to share the information I found out about that gravestone, as it does pertain to my Facebook profile picture.

His name was Joseph H. Chylewski/Chyleuski, PVT 355 INFANTRY, 89 DIVISION, COMPANY K.


I found him in the database of the 89th Division web page which listed the 355th Infantry which was established 5 August 1917 in the National Army as the 355th Infantry and assigned to the 89th Division. It was organized 27 August 1917 at Camp Funston, Kansas and demobilized 1-3 June 1919 at Camp Funston, Kansas.


This division of the US Army had some of the original “Dough Boys” who were trained to fight in northeastern France in the Lorraine/Argonne Forest area where one of the most brutal battles of World War I occurred: The St. Mihiel Offensive and Battle at Meuse-Argonne. That was the biggest operation and victory of the US Army in WWI.


I was able to find quite a bit of information!


He was born in Chicago on March 16th, 1887 at 4841 South Paulina…in his house and according to his draft record he was a private firefighter for the Union Theater at 4658 South Ashland by Back of the Yards.


If anyone knows what the heck a “private firefighter” was during the early 1900s, leave me a comment please! Thanks!


His draft/enlistment record also showed that on June 5th, 1917 he was still living with his parents who immigrated from Germany in the late 1870s , was a natural citizen of the United States, was of tall and slender build, white race, light brown eyes, black hair…slightly balding….?


Hey, don’t give me guff about the balding bit and kill the messenger, eh? That’s what I read. I sound like Elaine from “Seinfeld” describing George Costanza.


His parents were Mary and Andrew and both immigrated from "Germany" after the Franco-Prussian War in the late 1870s, when a lot of Polish named immigrants left what should have been Poland but was actually part of Prussia.


He was discharged 1st of June 1919 and went into the National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers which had a facility in Johnson City, TN in 1921. He was admitted for advanced tuberculosis; he died January 17th 1929 and is buried at Resurrection Cemetery.
Now you’re probably wondering what in the world made me write all this for you to read. Well, it IS Veteran’s Day, and by all means we should remember and honor our veteran’s in every branch of the military and every war that has been fought by them as if it weren’t for them…yes, and I’m sure some of you are tired of hearing “they fought for the freedoms of all Americans,” but they did.


I’m not tired of hearing what our vets and soldiers have done and continue to do. I try my best to honor them by doing as much as I can despite they seem little to some. I have a veteran neighbor down the block who needs occasional help with grocery shopping or cleaning his home. I buy poppies almost every Memorial Day and when I can, I donate to food banks and even to coat banks for our vets.


I did this little research project, for a brave former “Dough Boy” who too fought for our freedoms all the way across the pond, in a country whose language he had absolutely no knowledge of whatsoever. He was disconnected from everything he knew and was familiar with bunking with a bunch of fellow “Dough Boys” who were also scared. Him and the “Dough Boys” couldn’t help but feel terrified, horrified, displaced, lonely, homesick, hungry or thirsty, sickened by mustard gas exposure, surrounded by death, freezing, wet from rain and/or snow, sick with tuberculosis and trench foot. Some of them even had facial disfigurements from various shrapnel explosions….


…and all this without telephones, televisions, radios, the internet…..YES, everyone! This was 100 years ago. Snail mail was almost literally at a snail’s pace.


But they endured. They adapted and improvised. Some came back home; some didn’t and those who did make it back to what they called “home” were never the same again.


If this makes you think again about thanking a vet and you go do just that or you donate, or volunteer your services, then my little project isn’t so little, is it?



God bless our vets!

Juan's story 2

I was told by my cousins that I am a complete waste of space and oxygen for years.

I barely remember my father or my mother but do remember a tia of mine who was kind, generous and very affectionate. She put a lot of effort into me in so many ways as I recalled having ice skating lessons, trips to Old Chicago which was a huge indoor amusement park that was crazy fun! I just remember being in her arms as we rode scary rides and feeling the warmth of her bosom and her equally rapid heartbeat against my cheek which made me feel good, and special. The amount of junk food we'd eat, the night's staying up late even on a school night in the still warm evenings of September watching Johnny Carson and just being hugged, kissed and told "you ARE a gift, Juanito" from her. I remember her beautiful and long strawberry blond hair that had tight coils resembling tangled copper wire which she controlled either by ironing it on her ironing board or wrapping her hair in huge soup-can sized hair curlers that she bravely slept in several nights of the week. I never knew what she did for a living as, well; what would a little kid in kindergarten and first grade be thinking in regard to what their guardian/parent does, wouldn't you say? I just remember living in the moment without a care or wonder of what became of the parents I was supposed to have and why I just had my tia with me constantly. At times when I was picked up at school kids would ask, "is that your mother?" and I'd say "no, my tia" with replies of puzzled expressions, as I apparently were speaking to Anglo or Black kids who had no idea what a "tia" was at that time of our planet's orbit.

I recall the last time I saw my tia. I was getting ready for bed and she was having an argument with Jorge, her boyfriend. He was so angry about something she shouldn't have done, as he kept yelling "you shouldn't have done that" at my tia. After a lot of yelling and screaming and crying, Jorge finally left and my tia scooped me up...pj's and all, grabbed my shoes, my rucksack and my bear, her purse and took me to her sister's house. I remember the long drive to the northern suburbs of Chicago, passing all the expressway landmarks like the ominous buildings downtown, the Magikist lips sign that lit up the night and then the darkness that fell upon us as we left city limits. As I was carried out of the car at our destination I remember hearing the sharp clicking on the marble-esque pathway that led to my tia's sisters' house as she carried me hurriedly and told me as she rang the doorbell, "mira mijo; you have to stay with your Tia Mari for a day. I have something important to do and I'll be back tomorrow after school to bring you home, ok?" I recall numbly nodding at my tia as I looked around at the huge, imposing house and scary looking door that had a huge brass knocker that I always wanted to touch so badly. As I clutched my tia reaching for that knocker I heard harder clicking of heels from the other side of the door on marble floor that sounded like a woodpecker going to town on a redwood. The door flew open and there was my other "tia." My tia's sister who refused to allow me to call her "tia." I was to call her "Mari."

As I looked upon her scowling face, her jet black hair long and luscious like Cher from the "Sonny and Cher Show" she shifted her hip to the side and crossed her arms saying "so, I have to keep him overnight? I really don't want to nor have the time for a small child. I have enough kids to care for in this house!" She sounded very upset, angry. It scared me. I barely saw "Mari" and when I did it was just for family gatherings where I felt so tiny, unimportant and ignored by her side of the family ...which didn't bother me at that time as my main M.O. was to run around and play as long and as often as I could.

"Mari," my tia said firmly but in her usual calm manner. "It's just for one night. It's urgent. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon or evening, around 7PM latest. Please? Besides," she said, swaying with me in her arms and tilting her head to the side making her huge curly hair fall over her eyes. "You owe me, girl. You don't want me to let 'you know who' know about the truth, do you?"

Mari uncrossed her arms rapidly and stood up straight and had a wide-eyed expression and actually spoke so rapidly I almost didn't understand her as she sputtered, "you know you can't do that because me and the kids really need this house and our life style, and my car and..." She was interrupted by my tia who walked in the house right past Mari, still carrying me and laughing. "I knew it would take a threat to get you moving your lazy, fake queen butt. I'll lay him down, all you have to do is make sure he has breakfast, is dressed for school and taken there, ok?"

I heard the scary door slam hard and the loud clicking of Mari's heels on her marble floor sounding faster like she was running after my tia. "You be back by 5PM tomorrow as I have very important plans!" My tia made her way up a small spiral staircase and as I glanced back at Mari chasing us, I turned around to see us walk past several doors including a red one that I was forbidden to go through via warnings from Mari and my cousins. Tia picked a random door, went through it, flicked on the light and put me down on a bed that was fixed like a hotel room. I remember the hotel room we stayed in when tia took me to the Florida Keys after our adventures at Disney World and Cape Canaveral and this room reminded me of that hotel.

She started to tuck me into bed and Mari was at the open doorway with her arms crossed again and a very angry look on her face. Tia put my small rucksack on the floor at the foot of the bed, gave me my bear and sat at the edge of the bed caressing my head and looking at me saying "listen sweetie, I have some errands to run and I won't be done until tomorrow, so you be a good boy, listen to your Tia Mari, she's going to take you to school and pick you up and by the time you're finished with dinner, I'll be here to pick you up and we'll go home, ok?" I nodded glancing at Mari's angry, burrowed brow and scrunched up face then turned quickly to tia, hugging her.

"I'll be right back, mijo. Be good and we'll go for ice cream and a late night with Johnny, ok?" I looked up at her from my embrace and replied, "ok. I like Johnny." She laughed, hugged me hard and I smelled her hair which had a faint aroma of Chanel #5. I remember the bottle she always used to spray in the air with her walking into it. I always thought it was odd that she didn't spray herself with it but sprayed the air like the air smells bad.


She got up from the bed, crossed her arms at Mari and pointed at her and said, "remember, Mari. YOU owe me, so help me this one time and I'll never bug you again, yeah?" Mari rolled her eyes asking "do I have a choice?" My tia dropped her arms and replied, "no, especially since I never bug you with anything as you always need me to get you out of trouble." Mari sipped in

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said to both of us. She kissed me one more time before leaving. They both exited the room with Mari turning off the light angrily and slamming the door hard behind her, giving me a bit of a scare.

As I burrowed into the bed I felt scared, clutching my bear and pulling the blankets up to my nose and knowing I was probably not going to get any sleep that night. The room was quite dark with a tiny window at the top of the wall that was equally dark. No moonlight or city street lights to make me feel better about sleeping in strange and horribly different bed that even smelled strange. Not at all like the hotel I stayed in.

But nothing scared me more than what was about to happen in my life the next day.....

Juan's story, part 1

Yes, I am Juan. John in the "queen's English," Ian or Iain in Scottish, Evan in Welsh, and Sean or Eoin in Irish. The meaning of my name is "God's gracious gift."

Well, I really never felt precious, or a gift to anyone for a long time. And you're probably wondering why all the WASPy references to my given name, "Juan."

I'll get to that part later.

My story isn't to garner sympathy, pity or sadness but to help others learn of the evil that can be in human beings...

...and hamsters!

It's not something I usually share with everyone but as I mentioned I am determined to help as many individuals that may succeed in any of their endeavors as they go about on this big, blue marble that spins out in the middle of the Milky Way and holds some of the most heinous things on it.

But it also has good on it, as it rotates every single day every 24 hours 1,000 miles per hour and orbiting every year around our closest star the mighty sun at a speed of 18.5 miles a second. This blue marble holds the love, joys, hatred, evil, and just plain old disgusting vile scum that any living being can but shouldn't encounter.

But as I mentioned, there is good.

And it took me a time to find that good.

Let me start at the beginning if I may....