by Circe Olson Woessner
Recently, our local public radio station had its spring fundraiser. Each day, I swore I’d call in or pledge online, but then I got busy and forgot. An artist friend of mine on the East Coast put out a call for donated building supplies, and for people to help her refurbish her new art gallery—and lots of people liked her Facebook post—but no one stepped up to help. A large group booked a special event at a local space—and then no-showed, never considering that the owner of the space had cleared her schedule to accommodate them.
Many small nonprofits depend on donations to do their work, and with the new tax laws and a volatile economy, they fear they may not survive if the incentive for people to donate goes away…So, if you love, love, love a special cause, please show them your love by supporting it. Read the rest of this entry »
In 1952, I left, to attend a Boy Scout jamboree with other scouts to spend two weeks in Blair Atholl, Scotland We were the sons of American military personnel who were stationed in a southern Germany as part of the allied occupation force. It had only been a recent practice to participate in any form of group activity with local people, due to the disparity of living conditions and the after shock of the war years. We traveled on an olive drab military bus as far as the coast of the English channel at Ostend, Belgium.
All along our route we saw the terrible evidence of the war that had just been fought. Our presence, for some was their first contact with American youth. As I look back I remember how hard we worked to leave a good impression:
When we rode on the ship to England, we found a group of touring middle age women who had been visiting loved ones buried in the military cemeteries. Some of us, with guitars (Tony Phillips and David Murphy, I believe) led them in songs.
At the train station we drew the attention of the BBC, who noticed that we were going down the aisles passing out small packages of marshmallows. We learned that few of them had not seen or tasted a marshmallow before. At the beginning of our trip. each of us packed a can of Hormel ham to share with our host families. We realized that the British were still under a strict food rationing system. At the Tower of London, we were told that the only ones in England who were given a daily ration of meat were the ravens who populated the large courtyard.
We were awakened from our tents, in Scotland by the thrilling sound of bagpipes. I even accomplished a ‘l rounder’ in a Cricket game. I think, for all of us, that we so wanted to make the battle scarred world whole again.
By Hudson Phillips.