Normandy 1944-2024: Eighty Years Later The Memory Lives On

I climbed into the steel reinforced bunkers overlooking the Normandy landing beaches on Pointe du Hoc eighty years after the Rangers overtook the strategic German lookout 90 feet above the English Channel. I pictured a 19-year-old American boy jumping out of a PT boat into icy waters, with nothing more than a gauze bandage for comfort on a stormy dawn illuminated by gunfire.

I imagined him staggering across the dunes, dodging bullets and booby traps, clawing at the red cliffs, crawling through the hedge rows, groping for life in a foreign land, shooting at the shadows that could be his own comrades. He was an American soldier killing boys/men, who would have been his friends in another time and generation.

Here rests in honor glory a comrade in arms known but to God

I am of another time and generation — an American with a French-Normand spouse and German friends. Though I’ve been to Normandy hundreds of times, I visited the Normandy American Cemetery (outside St. Laurent) just once.

Only when standing on the hallowed grounds, where Americans lay under a blanket of emerald earth, marked by 9,386 white crosses, could I truly understand the enormity of their great and tragic endeavor on June 6, 1944.

On a rainy day, Normandy’s landscape offers a bleak reminder of her sad past, but on sunny ones the murky coastline, black sea, and gray fields are transformed into a tapestry of colors. Orange cliffs drop off into purple waters. Inland reddish-brown Norman cows and pink apple blossoms dot verdant hills under powder blue skies. Soft light white washes half-timbered houses and solid stone farm houses that remain as they were centuries ago.

The beauty and tranquility of Normandy today could drive a full-grown man to tears. And I, who am too young to have understood the impact of World War II, get a lump in my throat every time I return to the dairyland of northwestern France on one of those pinch-me-I-am-dreaming days of sunshine.

my husband's village on Normandy shores

Decades ago, on one of those sunny days, I pedaled my bike past red poppy fields and green valleys where newborn calves and lambs romped. I devoured veal “à la Normande,” Camembert cheese and berries in cream. Somewhere between the first and last course, I fell in love with a Norman.

Now the sacrifices of the men of the great war, their silent testimonials of white crosses that cover the rich green hills above the beaches Utah, Gold, Juno, Sword and Omaha have taken on special meaning for me.

They are my countrymen laid to rest in my adopted country. In a sense they saved my family.

freedom for the next generation

Every time, we used to visit Dieppe, (France) to see my grandfather-in-law, he’d greet me at the gate chanting the Star Spangled Banner.

“Ah, ma petite Pat,” he’d say recounting the highlight of his career as a trumpeter in the Garde Republicaine “I’ll never forget riding Lustucru (his horse) across the courtyard. The Allies landed in Normandy on June 6, but didn’t make it to Paris until the end of August. We waited for four long years…never quit believing they’d make it.”

He’d stop and pull a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wipe his eyes, before continuing, “Never forget how I blew the trumpet that day to welcome the Americans — greatest day of my life.”

The old heart does not forget. Now even though my generation never knew the horrors of war, my young heart will remember. When I stood in front of a sea of stark, white marble crosses, I felt overwhelmed by a debt that can never be repaid.

Suddenly I knew the unknown soldier — he was my father, my brother, my countryman, who died so nobly and unknowing, so that today I might live in freedom and peace in a land whose magnificence offers its own thanks to the skies.

Rest in peace my comrades-in-arms. You have not died in vain. I wish my words could transcend time so you could know. Because of you Normandy today, like the true Normans, remains proud and gracious.

England’s Intricate Canal System Had Me Trippin’

From the window of our son and daughter-in-law’s home in Warwickshire, England, I was admiring the red, brick barns and lush, green fields when suddenly a head floated past, just above their back hedge.

“I saw a ghost!” I screamed.

“No, that’s a real person,” Nic said. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Then he led us down a trail down the road from their home and we arrive at the Oxford Canal. I felt like I entered another time period. Narrow houseboats puttered along until jammed in traffic by ancient brick bridges with old fashioned locks every hundred yards.

On busy days pleasure boats floated up and down the canal. People congregated on the bridge shooting the breeze while waiting for next boat to go through the locks.

The rustic lock system, which allowed only a single boat passage, has changed little from the past century. In the past, a boy riding a bicycle prepared or set locks ahead of a boat's arrival. Nowadays, the woman aboard, carrying the lock key, hopped off onto shore to open the gate letting the water rise or fall, while the mister stood at the stern manning the rudder bar.

The Oxford Canal, inaugurated in 1769, is one of England’s oldest. In earlier days, coal and limestone were transported cross-country along canals that followed the contours of the land. In yesteryear, horses pulled supply boats by trotting alongside the canal on the shoreline’s narrow dirt paths.

Four thousand, seven hundred miles of navigable canals and rivers cross the United Kingdom; two thousand seven hundred miles of these are part of the connected system. During the Industrial Revolution, the canals system provided a commercial transport network until the the railways prevailed.

Narrowboats are usually built 6 feet 10 inches wide and a maximum length of 72 feet, because they must be under 7 feet wide and 75 feet long in order to fit into the lock.

Most of the old vessels, converted into houseboats, are now rented out for family holidays, but 8580 narrowboats are registered as 'permanent homes' on Britain's waterway system. Fifteen thousand Britons live their lives entirely on the water, and separate themselves from much of what defines the economy and life of the average British citizen. The boat people represent a growing alternative community living on semi-permanent moorings or continuously cruising.

Only a sunny day, a carnival atmosphere prevails. I felt wistful watching the colorful boats parade past on the lazy canal. Whimsically, I imagined ditching real life and drifting down the canal without a care in the world.

My First UK Walk in Wellies

I was excited as a two-year-old to take my first walk in wellies across the beautiful British countryside (I am easily amused.) Wellies, the symbol of British culture, reflect the lasting legacy of the Duke of Wellington and the term carries a sense of tradition, practicality, and British identity.

Wellies, aka. Wellington boots, date back to the 18th century. Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, enlisted his shoemaker to modify a military Hessian boot. Originally designed for battle, wellies were later used by farmers and outdoorsmen.

In the early 19th century, they became a staple of practical foot wear for the British aristocracy and middle class and a popular choice for various occasions, including evenings out.

“Everyone in England has a pair of wellies, “Larissa explained. “In the UK, the public has the right away to cross the fields. It’s known as Public Bridle Way.”

When our son, Nic, bought me a pair, I thought they looked so chic that I could wear them as dress boots, which many people do these days. Wellies evolved from being purely functional to becoming fashionable accessories with many brands offering trendy designs, colors and styles.

“Don’t you have wellies in the US?” my British daughter- in-law asked surprised at my exuberance.

“In the Midwest, we swap out tennis shoes directly for winter boots,” I said, “Only thing close to your wellies was the clunky, buckle up galoshes we wrestled on over shoes in grade school.”

The British waterproof gumboots are usually made from rubber or PVC. Traditionally Wellies come in black, olive green, tan color or print and hit just below knee level.

Walking in wellies looks simple, but it takes dexterity. Larissa’s family maneuvered the rough terrain far better than me or Gerald. Could advancing in gumboots be skill passed down from one generation to the next?

Fortunately, before we left home, Larissa advised, “Wear heavy socks to prevent blisters.”

“Slip your orthopedics inserts in the boots,” Nic, the chiropractor added. “It may help your back.”

Nothing helped my spine; I winced every step forward. The UK family, even Lari’s sister lugging her ten-month-old child in a baby carrier, glided across the uneven terrain gracefully. I lumbered along behind, as if on two left feet, stumbling every step of the way.

Wellies, designed to protect feet from getting muddy or wet in damp environments, are the quintessential symbol of British footwear. To the non native, they feel awkward and offer little support for someone with like me with crooked toes, poor balance and a bad back.

Today's wellies, with varied color options and patterns, permit people to add personal style to functional footwear. They can be paired to match every outfit and occasion.

But no one wears wellies with greater style and aplomb than five-year-olds. Larissa and Nic’s nephew mastered the skill. In his “dinosaur” wellies, with a jagged flap along the spine of boot, he galloped ahead, circled back and jumped in every puddle along the way.

For me, slipping on a pair of “wellies,” sloshing along the sublime English countryside and singing with our UK side of the family made me feel like a kid again.

A Très British Outing – Ze Pub

When my son married a beautiful British-Irish-Ukrainian woman, we were given an insiders peek into UK life, which begins and ends at the local pub. Going to the pub for a pint is as much a part of British life as a coca cola and Friday night football is to an American.

Dating back thousands of years to 43 AD when the Romans invaded the British Isles, the public house has been a cultural part of UK life for centuries. From the Roman drinking houses, called ‘tabernae’ to the Medieval ale houses offering lodging for travelers, to the ever popular pubs of today, the pub always served as the center of village life. Going to the pub remains a favorite British pastime.

Part of the adventure is getting there. A Saturday walk to the pub is as commonplace as a family heading to church on Sunday in the US.

Our fun multiplied when Larissa’s mom, her sister, brother-in-law, two nephews and their goodnatured labradoodle, Guinness, joined us for a walk across the British countryside.

We donned those quintessential British boots, aka wellies, and started walking through the fields right outside the door of their rental home known as the “barn.” The old chicken coop remodeled into an eclectic, modern, light-filled home had so many windows that it makes me feel like I on a farm for vacation.

“Don’t the farmers mind us trespassing on their land.” I asked Larissa as we tromped through the fields where sheep grazed.

“In the UK, the public has the right away,” she explained. “It is known as Public Bridle Way.”

“I don’t see any signs allowing us to hike on their property,” I said.

“It’s invisible!” she explained. “But you just know.”

“You have to be local enough to know or not know where it is acceptable,” Nic added.

Even without specifically labeled trails, the local farmers are accustomed to foot traffic.

Part of our hike included climbing over wooden stiles crossing the fences and hedgerow between the fields.

“A phone app indicates where it is okay to go,” said Larissa. “But it’s mostly common sense. You wouldn’t walk through field of donkeys or free range horses. It’s at your own risk if you try to cross a field of buffalo.”

Surprisingly, not only cattle, sheep and horses graze in Nic and Larissa’s neighborhood, but buffalo - African buffalo - also roam.

Walking in wellies on uneven terrain, included lumbering over six stiles like an obstacle course, I felt worn out by the time we made it to the pub.

The pub, an old brick home, divided into rooms, included a room where dogs were welcome guests. Guinness sat at attention, while the adults talked. Instead of ordering the usual hot drinks, after our hike, we were so thirsty, we opted for cokes, beer, and the local cider. The little boys sat politely at the table enjoying snacks.

Surprisingly, Guinness didn’t bother the other dogs tucked in at nearby tables while their owners sipped away the afternoon enjoying board games. At the table next to us, a couple played Jenga while their Irish hound stood guard. Near the pub entryway, a table of brawny locals spun tales as long as their beards.

One of the greatest features of pub life is that there is never any pressure to hurry up or to order another round. For the price of a drink, we could linger all day surrounded by charming English atmosphere.

Women’s History Month, March Madness, Acknowledging Ghosts of Women’s Basketball

Half a century ago, no one paid any attention when my friends and I played basketball. We got kicked off the court, but shoved our way back in the game, clearing the lane for Caitlin Clark, Angel Reese, Paige Bueckers, Juju Watkins and the contemporary stars of today.

Over the decades, women’s opportunities grew thousandfold because the cultural landscape changed with media exposure. Today girls never question their right to play basketball; they have female sport icons to emulate.

Born at the turn of the twenty-first century, Caitlin Clark grew up idolizing role models. As early as second grade, she wrote about her goal to play in the WNBA. As Caitlin reached the pinnacle of her college career at Iowa, she helped pack arenas. America watched, mesmerized by her engaging personality, athleticism, and exciting style of play.

In the sixties, in my own second grade story I wrote about the lockers playing a basketball game against the waste baskets during recess. Back then, I imagined inanimate objects in school had a greater chance of competing in the game than girls. Yet, like my sports loving peers, we shot hoops anyway creating a path so new that no one envisioned its existence.

The female hoopsters of my era grew up invisible in a vacuum of time.

As a high school junior, we were allowed to compete in three basketball games. My senior season, we played 14 games and won a conference title, which at the time was more than most schools where girls’ sports remained nonexistent. No one registered my Sterling High school records. Why would they? Still, I know the next generation, including my biological little sister, wanted to play basketball like me. They did. In 1977, they became the first IHSA Sterling Girls State Championship team.

Back in my day, without specialists, and pre/post season programs, girls like me had to be our own personal trainers, dieticians, strength coaches and shot doctors. My dad, Coach Jim McKinzie, gave me a head start by perfecting my jump shot and fundamentals. Workouts with coach, Phil Smith, helped me reach the pro level.

ISU Coach Jill Hutchison presenting Wade Trophy Finalist 1979. Best national basketball player award named after Coach Margaret Wade, 3-time Delta State National Champion.

I attended college in the 70s and received Illinois State’s first athletic scholarship (1978.) Right place. Right time. Right people. My coach, Jill Hutchison and her ISU colleagues paved the way for the groundbreaking reform Title IX that mandated equal opportunity for women in college athletics. Her graduate research dispelled the myth that women’s hearts would explode by playing full court. Hence the girl’s 3 on 3 half court game gave way to full court play in 1970. In 1972 Hutchison, along with ISU’s Women’s Intercollegiate Athletics director, created the first women’s national basketball championship.

This year, when Caitlin Clark, broke the all-time NCAA scoring record, she acknowledged Lynette Woodard’s scoring record during the Association for Intercollegiate Athletics for Women (AIAW) era.

“By 1981 the AIAW staged 41 championships in 19 sports and put women’s basketball on national television,” Sally Jenkins wrote in the Washington Post February 24, 2024. “Which is exactly when the NCAA swooped in with a hostile takeover, pressuring universities into abandoning the AIAW, to absorb what the women had built.“

I played ball in the AIAW era. In the infancy of Title IX, as collegiate athletes, we pushed our bodies, played hard, pulled all-nighters and still made it to class. We drove ourselves cross country in campus station wagons to compete against Michigan, Indiana, Ohio State and today’s Big Ten schools.

Charlotte Lewis ISU star center 1976 Olympian

In the mid 70s, we knew women could star in showtime. Our ISU center, the late Charlotte Lewis, dunked in practice. Our point guard Vonnie Tomich, a WBL All-Star, knocked down treys from downtown long before the three-point shot was added to the rule book.

Marketing? Sh**! No one in corporate America wanted to promote brands with no names like us. Name Image Likeness (NIL) did not exist. Social media, zilch. Media exposure, nada. Our only fans - loyal families and friends.

Today thousands of people tune in to women’s basketball obliterating the old records of attendance and viewership.

By comparison, in the late seventies, WBL (precursor to the WNBA) players’ paychecks bounced months before the league declared bankruptcy. Back then, no one wanted to watch a bunch of “amazon women” play men’s favorite game.

My sister, Karen, first Illinois State High School Championship basketball player, daughter, Hannah, Minnesota High School State Champion rugby player at sold out Iowa - Nebraska women’s basketball game.

We sacrificed our bodies to chase a dream so farfetched and ahead of its time that we were ridiculed. Those scars of scorn remain etched in our souls. But without us, Luisa Harris, Lynnette Woodard and the superstars of the AIAW and WBL era, there would be no Caitlin Clark, Angel Reese, Paige Bueckers or Juju Watkins. For decades women’s sports have been an afterthought, if considered at all. Thanks to media exposure and exciting play, fans now argue about the officiating, players trash talk opponents, and the women’s game is the talk of the town.

Gender disparity still exist in colleges, corporations, and societies, but the icons of the Caitlin Clark era have demonstrated women’s sport will grow if given a chance.

“Build it and they will come,” said Hutchison, Illinois State University’s winningest basketball coach, Women’s Basketball Hall of Fame recipient (2009) and a true visionary of the game.

After a long, arduous journey from the AIAW to Title XI to the NCAA Final Four to the WNBA, the ghosts of the game are hooting and hollering and dancing in the rafters. Forget bracket standings. Ignore NCAA results. Celebrate Final Score. Women Win!