Stand Up for Lt. Ed, the VA, and the USA

Lieutenant Edgar M. Rosenwasser, Army Air Corps, volunteered to serve his country in 1942. The 20-year-old hoped to become a pilot, but less-than-perfect vision prevented that. So Edgar became a bombardier navigator on a B-24 Liberator that flew from Foggia, Italy with a crew led by Captain Leonard D. Switzer on 47 bombing missions over Germany, completing 51 sorties. The average number flown was 8.

Today Edgar is 94 years old and the legs that stood him tall through war and life have gone soft, but his mind is steely strong. He has experienced a few assisted living facilities; none worth a second glance. But since April, due to the caring research of his daughter, Nancy, Lt. Ed is in the loving arms of the Veterans’ Administration. Yes, I just said the Veterans’ Administration. You know, the vilified one. 

As a result,  I’m here to say: “Hey, you. You Americans out there, get together and stand up for Lt. Ed, the VA, and the USA.”

Edgar and Henriette
married 66 years until
her death in 2008

Lt. Ed meets great-grand-daughter, 2013

I saw it first hand – I saw the love and care the staff of the West Palm Beach VA Hospice extends not only to the veterans in their care, but also to the family members and friends who visit them. And for those who have few visitors, volunteers appear like clock-work. They are all former soldiers, some in their 40s, a few in their 90s, and another, I’m told, who is 107. That is not a typo. They walk – or ride scooters – from the huge teaching hospital to the smaller outer buildings that include long-term care and hospice facilities. 

Clint is one of them. He walks with a cane due to a numb leg that gives out on him, but his heart is big enough to get him along. Clint steps into Lt. Edgar’s large private room and knocks off a crisp salute with his “Good morning, Sir.” Clint is a retired non-commissioned officer which means he needn’t salute a lieuteneant, according to Ed’s son, Michael, my husband, a US Navy veteran who witnesses this with me at his father’s bedside.

Clint and the Lieutenant trade some military repartee. It means little to me, so I look around at the context of their banter. Now, my heart swells. A baseball cap with a visor filled with Air Corps décor sits atop a stack of military books. A 1940s photo of Lt. Ed and a crew of leathernecks in front of their B-24 poses there, too.  There are cards from the Lieutenant’s children, grandchildren, great grandchild, and random U.S. school kids who’ve written to say “Thanks for your service.” Encased in  velvet, a box tilts upward toward the Lieutenant's eye-level. It displays his officer bars and his medal for bravery. 

Edgar M Rosenwasser, (l, standing), 736 BombSquadron

Over a two day period, we see the Chaplain stop by to finish a conversation she, a retired US Navy vet, and the Lieutenant had begun the day before about air craft carriers. Then the hospice manager  and the dietician come in to inquire about the Lieutenant's meals and comfort; the pharmacist arrives to review Edgar's medicines with him. A technician brings in a clean blanket to tuck around the Lieutenant's legs. Dr. Michael Silverman appears for a daily assessment and reiterates that his team will do whatever they can to buoy Lt. Ed's spirits. The staff puts him in a wheelchair and brings him outside to breathe fresh, morning air, and on some fine evenings when Lt. Ed wants to savor a sip of Scotch, they are happy to oblige.

What Michael and I see here, in this hospice where Lt. Ed has come to end his days, is Lt. Ed himself. He is not the protoplasm in a hospital gown that we visited in the other assisted care facilities. He is Lt. Edgar M. Rosenwasser, an American who served his country well. He has a name, a family, a back story, and a relationship to every one of these brothers and sisters in arms, and so does every other resident of this facility.

But there’s more to this story about America at its best. While visiting Lt. Ed, we stayed in The Fisher House, a beautiful residence provided for the loved ones of hospitalized veterans. First opened as family comfort homes in 1990 with a $20 million grant from Zachary and Elizabeth Fisher, there are now 60 houses across the US and in Europe. Each serves with the philosophy that "families heal." Donations are welcome, but there is no charge for staying there.  http://www.wpbfisherhouse.org/donate.html

From their mission statement:

“The road home can be a rough one---that is why we have Fisher House. It’s a Home away from Home for veterans and their families, located on the grounds of major VA medical centers and Military Hospitals.  We have one—right here—steps from the VA Medical Center in West Palm Beach. It has the highest occupancy rate of all Fisher Houses (as of 2012). Families stay as long as necessary, free of charge. It is, indeed, a home away from home.”

That says it all. In the West Palm Beach Fisher House, we were among several families whose veterans are of all ages. Some had been there for four months, but all can stay as long as their veteran is under care. The house is immaculate, the décor is modern, warm, and welcoming. There are scores of DVDs, books, and games available. The kitchen is fully stocked for any meal of the day, 

I walk around the Fisher House and hear the strains of America’s soundtrack playing in my head. Soldiers’ boots pop out from corners;  a bust of the Fishers smiles from a bureau; needlework flags hang on the walls to honor loved ones; a visitors’ book encourages mention of the veteran being attended by the family signing in. There are flowers everywhere, an abundance of k-cups provides an endless coffee selection, and Kleenex – Kleenex boxes stand at the ready in every room.

I reach for a tissue as I take it all in. I cry because I’m proud. This is our country. These wonderful gestures are from our people. Americans.  I’m proud to be one.

by Suzanne McLain Rosenwasser with Michael Rosenwasser

West Palm Beach Fisher House

Front Hall and the Fishers

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Books by Suzanne McLain Rosenwasser

Order paperbacks or ebooks at all online sellers or click here for Amazon orders:

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Visit:  http//:www.suzannerosenwasser.com

A Video 44 Years in the Making

My husband and I made a video ad for a reading I'm doing of my novel,  Don’t Ya Know. Once again, in the head to head spirit of the 44 years we’ve worked together, we reached the end of a project.

Let me tell you, it isn’t easy to be on a creative roll with one’s spouse. Issues arise, even in a one minute film edit. What we’ve learned to do is keep our mouths shut and take a break when the whole thing sucks.

That’s why this latest production took a bit more time than usual. The learning curve on these computer programs is rough when you only use them once a year. And we’re in our…well, we’re seniors, a group not known for long, IT retention.

“What did we do last year when this happened?”

This question threads our work which positions Michael at the large screen iMac with me speaking over his shoulder.

“Did you save it as a movie file?” I ask.

“I’m going for a Quicktime movie, right? That’s what we did last year, right?”

That much we recall, but QT looks different and iMovie requires an update. The reviews for the update say it’s worse. But we persist with many deep breaths and a few temper flare ups, mostly aimed at Apple. The glitch-filled draft loops by us and through us hundreds of times, maybe thousands over a week.

Consequently, the underscore of the trailer follows me through the day, and then hums through my dreams at night, until the Hallelujah Singers awaken my morning brain with a full throated chorus of "Carry Me Home." I brush my teeth to their harmony and caffeinate myself to the heartbeat of their drums. This will go on for an indefinite period. Perry Como sang in my head for months when we did the promos for Manhasset Stories, so I’m prepared.

Despite the song worms, there are wonderful moments in this work Michael and I do together.  It’s teamwork that began in 1972 when we first met at Chemical Bank in Manhattan. Employees were not allowed to date. It was that simple. We kept our relationship a secret, though we worked a desk apart in a room full of desks. Our subordination solidified us. 

We got married, moved to a great apartment on the East River, and painted a large canvas together, using tape to mask off the colors in our velour sofa. Posting the photo, shown below, took courage; but here's what we turned out, offering proof that love is blind. Note, however: the painting sits down there at the bottom in a collage of our early years. It's the 1970s in New York and that defines an entire era for us.

There’s another scene that plays in my mind’s eye. It took place in our first home in Georgia, shortly before we became parents. One night we worked together over an old electric typewriter perched on the fireplace stoop. We planned to write our story as a memoir, alternating chapters with each other's perspective. It was a one-night wonder.

Later on,  I wrote a children’s story and Michael illustrated it. Then, I wrote a folk singer’s biography, and Michael read the copy three times before the editor saw it. Again, neither of these projects came to fruition, though each had plenty of drama - enough to leave us broken.

But we put ourselves back together and created another life. I wrote for a weekly newspaper, he set the type, and shoulder-to-shoulder, (with a team), we prepared the boards for the printer.

Stormy weather arrived again, figuratively and literally. It tore the life we’d made apart, and we worked night and day to clean up the damage for 20 years straight.

We slowed down when we retired a few years ago, and found ourselves comfortably back in the same old places, working together as we’ve always done.

Here's our latest effort, a book ad for a Long Island reading coming up. Michael is the one who made this minute happen. I was his assistant:

                                                   


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Order paperbacks or ebooks at all online sellers or click here for Amazon orders:

http://amazon.com/author/suzannerosenwasser

Visit:  http//:www.suzannerosenwasser.com