Remembering "Our Joe"

My Mom always referred to her "baby" brother as "our Joe".   I was only 6 & 1/2 years old when "our Joe" was killed in action in Korea, but I remember him as a sweet and gentle man.


The President of the United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress July 9, 1918, has awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, posthumorously, to

                             FIRST LIEUTENANT JOSEPH T. O"DONNELL, USA

for extraordinary heroism in military operations against an armed enemy:

 First Lieutenant O'Donnell, Infantry, United States Army, a member of Company A, 38th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, distinguished himself by extraordinary heroism in the vicinity of Mundung-ni, Korea on 13 October 1951.  On that date, Company A launched an assault on a strategic hill strongly defended by a determined enemy.  Lieutenant O'Donnell led his platoon until they were halted by a heavy barrage of enemy small arms and mortar fire.  Unhesitatingly, and with complete indifference to the intense fire, Lieutenant O'Donnell placed himself at the head of his platoon and led them in a renewed assault, during which he charged and destroyed an enemy position killing its occupants with his rifle and grenades.   Although wounded by an enemy grenade he continued to lead his men in the attack.  Knocked down by a second grenade, he immediately arose and again continued to direct his men in the assault.  In the platoon's final charge Lieutenant O'Donnell was fatally wounded by mortar fragments.   His bravery and spirited leadership were an inspiration to all who witnessed his actions and contributed immeasurably in the successful completion of the mission.  The courage, tenacity, and devotion to duty displayed by Lieutenant O'Donnell reflect the highest credit upon himself, his unit and the military service.

A Time To Remember

8 Oct 51

Dear Folks,

            I’m writing this from the company area in a field which is surrounded by large mountains.  My ballpoint pen broke and I bought this other pen and its’ not worth a darn.

            I’m in A Company of the 35^th Inf. Regiment, “The Rock of the Marne” of the 2^nd Infantry Division.  The Regiment is rated tops over here and they are sure eager to get the North Koreans.  We are in the Central Eastern front and are fighting North Koreans only.  They say the Chinks are planning to move into the area north of us real soon.  This company just came off the hill, they had 2 killed and 11 wounded yesterday.  They lost 2 Officers, most of the wounded lost legs from mines.  The area is heavily mined and you have to watch your step.  I would like to have those people who think there’s no war on to come over here for just one week.

            I haven’t received mail for 10 days and I guess it will be another 10 days before I do.  The news here is very scarce.  The people here at the front think the peace treaty is the bunk.  One prisoner taken yesterday never heard of the peace talk.

            We are pounding them every second with the big guns, I was about 100 yards from the 105 Howitzer last night and it was very difficult to sleep.  Knowing it was all going out and not coming in made me feel happy.  We are advancing slow but sure and are very confident we can beat them.

            Don’t worry about me, I’m doing fine, but I would appreciate all the prayers I can get.  Thinking of you all.

                                                                                    Love,

                                                                                                Joe

This was Joe’s last letter home (that I am aware of) as he was killed in action on Heartbreak Ridge in Korea on  October 13^th, 1951.

Another piece of the ongoing Saga of the Tale of Dishonest Bob from NYC

The years flew quickly and before I knew it I had become a young woman.   Throughout these same years my dearly beloved Grandpa O’Donnell was starting to show his age.    Nonetheless, we both still loved to “go up to the country” and would jump at any excuse or opportunity to get there.

It just so happened that in late December 1969, I pick up a guy named Bob at a place called Pep McGuire’s on Queens Blvd.   Honestly, I had actually met Bob a month earlier (the night before Thanksgiving) when I was briefly introduced to him at another pick-up dance hall/bar establishment, The Desert Inn, on the Van Wyck Expressway – the highway that leads to the Whitestone Bridge and the wonderful borough of the Bronx.   But that is another story - in and of itself -and I will tell that particular, “How I Met my Husband Story” some other day.

My new boyfriend, Bob, had recently graduated from SUNY Buffalo; therefore he was familiar with upstate roadways and the drive from Buffalo, NY to Astoria, Queens.   Oftentimes, he passed right through the Binghamton, NY area on his way to and from school.   Since Bob was a sport and seemed to enjoy all kinds of adventures and motor trips, when he heard how much my Grandpa, my Aunt Anne and I loved to go to the Binghamton area and the surrounding countryside, he offered to be our chauffeur.   This was like a dream come true for me – a boyfriend who didn’t mind driving me and my Grandpa and my Aunt Anne to the country.    This made it oh so easy for me to fall in love.

On the first of several such excursions “up to the country”, the plan was for all four of us to stay with my Aunt’s first cousin, Nonie, and her husband Greydon and their family.   I don’t know who planned this arrangement but I know it wasn’t Bob or me.  Nonetheless, it sounded like great fun and the price was right, so we willingly trailed along.   When we arrived on the west side of Binghamton, we march into the lovely Ellison home on LeRoy Street.   As typical, we followed directly behind our fearless Leader, TJ, and immediately made ourselves right at home.    Once again, we had some hell of a nerve, wouldn’t you say – four overnight guests for God knows how many night!     Just to make the picture a little clearer for you, Nonie was TJ’s deceased wife’s (nee’ Margaret Coleman) niece – not even a blood relative of TJ’s.    No matter - we where there, and ready for a good time.   

Why I am So Slow

So, the little guy in this photo (actually the big guy in the picture too) are part of the reason I do not get to write on a more regular, consistent basis.   For instance, I had planned to concentrate on writing most of the day today but then I got a call from my daughter, Diane, that my darling little grandson, Connor Patrick, was home from school and was a bit under the weather with abdominal cramps and an upset stomach.  " Would you mind running to the store for some food items and drinks for Connor".   She didn't want to take him out since he was still "dragging" and was basically laying around on the couch in the living room.   What could I say!  Where do my priorities lie?  Well you all know the answer to that one. 
And, Poppi needs a home-cooked meal to keep him going and to fatten him up, so the writing gets put away for another day. 
So those are two of my excuses.  Who could ask for better excuses.  When compared to these things, writing often takes a back burner. I wish I had more time and more energy but then again, don't we all?
God Bless You All,
Love You,
 Mary Beth

Off on another Tangent from The Tale of Dishonest Bob from New York City

As young adolescents, my siblings and cousins and I would be more than delighted to desert our parents’ vehicles and hop a ride in Grandpa O’Donnell’s car for the exciting journey from the steaming streets of New York City to the wild, blue openness and lush greenery of the Southern Tier and Northern Pennsylvania.   Each one fought valiantly for the coveted spot in the front passenger seat, next to our Patriarch, T.J.    Once this was decided, we would settle into our places and clamor for takeoff.    The second we pulled away from the curb, our vacation began.   

Being with Grandpa O’Donnell was like being with a peer; it was akin to taking a joy ride with another teenager.   As we took off down the street a sense of total abandonment filled our hearts and minds and bodies.   Our spirits soared as the car overflowed with songs, silly jokes, shenanigans and laughter.   We were now free to do as we pleased, and arms and legs and shoeless feet dangled out car windows as TJ took over the roadway.   Grandpa would have no part of being of being overtaken – woe be it to any driver who attempted to pass us.   As a car would come up alongside us, TJ would speed up and slow down, purposely irritating the other driver.  He or - worse yet- she quickly left in disgust in order to get out of our way as soon as was humanly possible.   We yelled out the car windows and squealed in delight.   Hey – I never thought of this before –possibly this is where Cousin Tom learned his driving tactics.

Periodically throughout the trip, TJ turns to us kids and demands in a rather showy and dramatic way, “Where’s my medicine? Someone hand me my medicine.”   That’s typically the job of whichever grandchild is riding shotgun at that moment and this lucky teen, thrilled to be of assistance, scurries and pokes his hands under the front seats scanning around to feel for the small brown paper bag containing Grandpa’s medicine.   With one hand resting on the steering wheel, TJ is nonetheless expertly able to maneuver a self-medication.    He uncurls and pulls back the top of the paper bag, screws the cap off the bottle, brings the opening to his mouth, leans his head back and takes two or three solid swigs of the soothing light brown liquid.  “It’s good for what ails you”, he says as he smiles broadly and refortifies himself with his drug of choice, a whiskey that goes by the pretty name of Four Roses.    We’re old enough to realize it’s a bit risky, but we’re also young enough to think it’s funny and cool.   
When we reached an occasional traffic light, Grandpa taught us another valuable driving tip that I remember and sometimes use to this very day, i.e., "yellow light means speed up you might make it".

We drive through some rain and after the storm passes, we stop at a rest area.  The fresh, earthy smell of the wet grass and the patches of blue sky pushing through the dark, dreary gray clouds greet us head on.   We’re only at the midpoint in our journey, but already we can sense and feel that we are well on our way to entering God’s country.    Besides, when driving with Grandpa,getting there is half the fun.

to be continued.... sorry Terry, I promise I'm getting there!
Mary Beth

Background Info for the "Dishonest Bob from New York City" Tale

Growing up, we were in the habit of inviting ourselves to stay overnight-and for a few days at a time for that matter- at the homes of our country cousins in upstate New York.   We learned this approach from our interesting, amusing, outgoing Grandfather, the original farm boy himself, T.J. O’Donnell, who was born and raised on a secluded farm in a close your eyes for a splint second and you’ll miss it hamlet called St. Joseph’s Pennsylvania.    T.J. was a proud, outspoken Irish-American who loved nothing better than instigating a loud and boisterous argument, only to quietly withdraw a few minutes later - with a barely visable smirk on his face - leaving the rest of the his family in a heated  and noisy verbal battle.  

In his late teens, T.J. left the farm and the rolling hills of God’s country to make a life for himself in the grandest city of them all – New York.    Nonetheless, it was always obvious to me that he left a big piece of his heart in this place he arrogantly proclaimed, The Garden Spot of America.   Although he spent the rest of his life living and working among the busy, hectic streets of the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan, he always yearned for the old homestead, the surrounding green, rolling hills and the fresh, hay-scented air of God’s country.   He returned to this beautiful spot of earth every single change he got.   

I think that T.J. honestly believed he “owned” this little slice of the country.  Throughout his life, whenever he traveled northwest from New York City to his childhood home and the surrounding area, he never hesitated for an instant to knock on a door, invite himself in, and settle right down in a comfortable chair in the parlor.    Although he came uninvited, he never came alone.     T.J. had his wife, children and grandchildren – the entire O’Donnell clan- in tow.

In my childhood and youth, I thought this was marvelous; it was like being in the entourage of a royal and famous King and honestly, surprisingly, most of these cousins, distant relatives and old friends seemed genuinely happy to welcome T.J. and his gang into their homes.   Maybe it is a country thing or a remnant of a by-gone era, or possibly it was the strength of T.J.’s body language and his straightforward style.  When the homeowner opened his or her front door and saw T.J. standing there with a gleam in his eyes and the look of expectancy on his face, any reluctance on their part disappeared and they stepped aside to let him pass into the inner chambers of their home.  Years later when I had a home and family of my own, I cringed at the thought of that unexpected knock on the front door.  I cannot imagine finding a large bunch of uninvited guests standing on my doorstep, smiling broadly, expecting to be invited into the living room for a cup of tea!    But, back then, I was right there following eagerly behind the great patriarch of our family, thrilled to tag along whenever he suggested a trip “up to the country”.  

Christian Made His First Holy Communion

My brother's oldest grandchild, Christian, made his First Holy Communion at 10:30AM on Saturday ( May 7th)  and Bob & I, my Dad and my daughter, Diane & her son, Connor, went to Hicksville, Long Island to join in the joyous event.  We had a lovely time.  When I download a few of the photos, I'll share a couple with you.  It is great to get together with the extended family for these happy times.   I only wish we could transport ourselves miraculously from upstate to downstate as the driving back and forth gets tedious.   After 36 years of living up state,  I am now truly a "country girl" and do not enjoy the traffic and congestion of the Big Apple.    Actually I feel as if I have always had country blood in my veins being that my maternal grandparents grew up on farms in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania.   When my Grandma O'Donnell was a teenager (at that time she was Miss Coleman) she wrote an essay on the benefits of living in the country versus living in the city and I have to say when I read it, I agreed with her 100%.
All I can say is thank God, I'm a country girl,
Love, Mary Beth

My friend told me not to look at their faces

I tried to look away, I really did.  I told myself that it would be better that way.  But her face, her eyes drew me in.  She couldn't have been more than 85 pounds soaking wet.  Her gray hair was piled in a bun on top of her head.   She looked so lost, so bewildered.  I just wanted to pick her up in my arms and hold her.  The young man that escorted her up to the casket stood by her side and supported her as best he could.  But it was obvious that as young and tall and strong as he was, he couldn't take away her heartache.  It was obvious to everyone in the church that she was standing alone in these moments and no one could really take away her pain.    It was the time of the Mass when Father invites the congregation to share the sign of peace with those around them.  She walked from her pew and took a few steps to the silver casket where her husband's body lay and she gently rested her hand upon his silver casket.  She didn't sob or cry out.  She was so quiet in fact that, in some strange way, it was actually the loudest announcement of all telling us  to stand at attention.   And, when you looked closely you could see the moisture of a few tears on her cheeks; you could see the sorrowful story written all over her face.   After 68 years of marriage she was saying a final good-bye to her faithful and loving husband.   What would she do ? How would she survive without him? They had no children, it was just the two of them - partners- together all these many years.
Don't look at their faces and you'll make it through the funeral services without crying.   Oh why didn't I listen to my dear, wise friend?
Honestly, as I stood there on the altar in my role of lay minister waiting to share the Eucharist with the family, I could not turn my gaze away from her sweet little face.  I tried, I really, really tried.  

Teddy Roosevelt's Home in Oyster Bay, LI

The kids were busy climbing trees and checking out the Pet Cemetery where "Little Texas", Teddy Roosevelt's horse, was buried on the property of Sagamore Hill.   Connor, had a grand time with his cousins, Nolan & Addison, when we traveled to Long Island over Holy Week.   Mema & Papa and Aunt Donna were kept very, very busy attempting to keep up with them.  We walked - some of us ran- down the steep pathway to the Long Island Sound where the kids found wonderful "treasures" strewn along the sand.  Popi waited patiently in the Gift Shop. A great time was had by all. 
Mary Beth
PS. I will get back to writing on more of a schedule.  Please let me know if you are able to comment.  I couple of people have mentioned that they were unable to access the comment feature and I have tried to adjust it.