staff sergeant edward l miller

In The Year 2025

~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ Leave a comment

For some years now I’ve spent time toward the end of December thinking about the significant moments of the year, which can often include some tragedy, of course. But I quickly became a fan of this wide-lens scan of the previous twelve months. It helped me focus on moments that meant something instead of memories just bouncing around my brain, turning them into little more than some passing haze between other, seemingly more important hazy thoughts. It didn’t take long to figure out that those five significant moments truly were the most important days of the year, and they deserve a more intense recollection. So I listed them for myself and thought about them, focusing, concentrating, then almost reliving them. Yes, even the sorrowful parts.

These are the five that emblazed themselves into my mind so that even just a brief touch of an aroma might bring back the day with complete clarity.

Gwynn’s Island, Virginia. Michael submitted a few pieces to a juried art show at the Island’s museum, and as a result he had to make several trips there to drop off the work, to go to the opening, and then to pick the work up after the show, so I joined him. We hiked the beach one time and ate at one of our favorite Mathews County places, Richardson’s. It is always relaxing when we go on one of our hikes through the trails or along the various coastlines of the area. On that day we dropped off his work and discovered the hidden gem of a museum with artifacts dating back to John Smith’s sojourn there and his storied subsequent swim in the Chesapeake not far from here, where he was stung by a stingray, giving the point its name. But the second trip there was most memorable as the turnout for the art opening was excellent, and they set up an excellent table of food and wine, while the artists and guests admired the work. An art historian and teacher sat as judge, and Michael’s work won first place. Her explanation of her choice was touching and as an art appreciation professor myself, I truly admired how well thought out her choices were (this isn’t Dad speaking, really). One of his rewards for first prize was a gift card to the popular local joint, Hole in the Wall, where we ate on our third trip down. This all seems fast and so local to rank as one of the five moments of a year, but it is hikes like these, combined with the display of his work, that brings such peace I cannot find many other moments during which I’d rather spend my time.

Curious Men: Lost in the Congo. While the official release date for my new book is not until January 4th (as that is the birthdate of the subject of the book), it is available already and receiving the copies in the mail meant more to me than my other works. This one was very personal, and it had been a monkey on my back for forty-five years. The work has been through so many versions, I cannot honestly tell you the final version is the best one, but it is the one that I believe works best for me now. In the end, I discovered the book was not about me and not about my friend. It is about trying to figure out life when out on your own for the first time, and what we choose to pay attention to and choose to ignore. What is most significant about this work and the release of the book is this one is the first book I’ve written which was done so entirely for me. I wasn’t thinking about audience, about others who knew the story, not thinking about critics or publishers, editors or bookstore owners. It was for me. It is the most honest thing I’ve written, and I still could have taken five more shots at it and not been completely satisfied. Releasing this book has more significance than I could ever possibly convey (and it is doing very well thank you very much).

Spirit Lake, Utah. Okay, so this one is special. We drove up in June to an area where snow still drifted across the trails and the temps at night fell into the low forties at best. No running water, no electricity, a wood burning stove in a cabin the size of an SUV, with a firepit off of a porch out front. Our cabin was “Sacajawea,” and we left it often to walk down the hill to Spirit Lake, lay on the dock and watch the stars, or more often to hike some of the trails climbing above 11K feet, where a few times we saw moose. Rarely in my life have I been that relaxed, that detached from everything which causes stress, and able to say what I wanted and talk for hours without any thought about how it came out. I was never so present. How often do we find ourselves so much in the present moment that all matters of concern slide away? It happened that entire trip.

The Netherlands. The only tense moment of this trip was at the end, when I was returning the car to the rental lot at the airport, and I accidentally left the airport and found myself on an interstate headed back to Amsterdam, and a sign which read, “Next exit 14 miles.” I texted to say I’d be really late getting through security, then I sped, spun about some cloverleaf, slipped into the rental lot thirty minutes later and tossed the keys to a man who wanted to inspect the car. I took off running and panted my way through security. The rest of the trip was perfect. To walk the fields where Van Gogh walked and painted, to stay in an Airbnb just a mile from where he lived with his parents in Neunen, to dodge bikes and cars in Amsterdam and stumble upon a festival in Volendam. I will say here that I had a blast, laughed endlessly, remained silent for hours without worry of the quiet, and wondered

beyond words what circumstances found us there with such presence of mind. There was the small village where a stroll into someone’s backyard yielded a take of water buffalo cheese and yogurt, and I met my new friend, Sparky the Water Buffalo. An old woman in a housedress came out to her own barn where we looked in cases at water buffalo ice cream and other items, to sell the goods without a word of English. By far, however, the highlight of the trip was a small ceremony for Staff Sergeant Edward L. Miller of Pennsylvania who died on December 17th, 1944, at the Battle of the Bulge, and where I stood silent while his niece rubbed sand from Normandy in his name, made an etching of his stone, and met the family who has taken care of his grave since the war. While they spoke to each other, I looked about these grounds of the American Cemetery at Margraten, at the more than 8000 fallen soldiers, and said to one of our hosts, “These men were no older than my students,” and the weight of war, of the Miller family’s loss, of this memorial journey across four thousand miles settled in my chest. What an honor to be part of this in a small, outside way. I can still smell the freshly mown grass as they were cutting it while we stood nearby. I can still hear the voice of the young woman at the park who spoke with such respect and honor. What a day. What an incredible trip. I’ll leave off the part about driving in Delft.

Mom. On April 12th my Mom, Joan Catherine Kunzinger, died at almost 92 years old. Joanie was the smartest, most honest, most caring, most loving woman I have ever encountered. Her strength as a young girl who had to take care of her siblings, as a young bride with two and then eventually three kids, as a wife taking care of Dad when he was not well in the last years of his life, and as a widow who hauled herself around absolutely always laughing, appreciating the fact she was simply alive and grateful. That is the word for Mom: Grateful, for everything, She could make friends with a lamppost and everyone I’ve ever met who met Mom, loved her. Her solidly Irish and Italian background came through strong, and she was forever a New Yorker. But Mom was at home wherever she was. I was fortunate enough to make more than fifty short videos of her talking about her life, but I cannot watch them without breaking down. Still, here’s the significance of her being on this list this year: She wasn’t expected to die. Not when she did. The day before I left for the Netherlands, I made a video of Mom in which she recites a poem about tulips, and laughs. I promised her I’d

bring her cheese, and she was very excited (despite her predictable “oh please don’t go to any trouble” comments). Two days after I returned but was still at my sister’s home in Pennsylvania, Mom fell while getting up from Bingo, and she hit her ribs on the chair. She never recovered as her paper-thin lungs were already beyond strained. I made it home in time for her to look in my eyes while she lay in her bed. Her eyes swelled a bit when she saw me, but she quickly fell back to sleep. She died that night after I had driven home.

But here’s the thing about this: I have in front of me a picture of the family the morning after the funeral, and we’re on the boardwalk in Virginia Beach, clearly and appropriately enjoying each other’s company, just as Mom would have wanted. My sister made a comment when captioning the picture about this being “Mom’s legacy.” That hit me well. There is her life, right there, in the three kids, the five grandkids, the five great-grandkids, and it’s only just starting. Mom taught me through example to appreciate just the reality that we are alive now, but not for long, so we must love. I never got to tell her all about Amsterdam as she was very excited about me going and was looking forward to hearing about everything. Instead, I ate her cheese. She would have laughed at that.

The days Michael and I spent at New Point Comfort before the art show, the narrative of Curious Men and why it means so much to me, Spirit Lake, the Netherlands, Mom—all of these are the most significant moments of the past year because of the people; only because of the people.

    I hope from now on when I recall events from my past, I recall them solely because I had the chance to love and be loved and let that always be what I remember.

    December 17th, 1944

    ~ aviewfromthiswilderness ~ 1 Comment
    The American National Cemetery at Margraten, The Netherlands

    When my Uncle Tom Burton died, the service was held at Arlington National Cemetery. He was a war hero, then a sheriff, always a father and a fine man. He lived a long life and it was an honor to be there when a marine knelt in front of my cousin, Audrey, and whispered, “On behalf of the President of the United States…” and guns were fired, and a soldier stood amidst some headstones and saluted the entire time. Nearby a horse-drawn carriage waited.

    I walked about the cemetery that day and noted the names and dates, and while many of them did indeed die in combat and were interred at Arlington, many, such as my Uncle, served his time and lived a good, long life–never long enough, of course–and played with his grandchildren before that inevitable day. I wrote about Arlington Cemetery for the Washington Post, and while sadness was a motivating factor in my prose, it was not nearly as present as was pride for the women and men who served.

    Staff Sergeant Edward L. Miller of the 309th Infantry, 78th Division, from Pennsylvania, was never buried at Arlington. Killed during the Battle of the Bulge, his final resting place is in the American National Cemetery in Margraten, Netherlands. His is one of more than 8000 soldiers buried there beneath the white crosses with names carved in perfect formation. The grounds of the cemetery–officially American Territory about two hours southeast of Amsterdam–are manicured and, in April, spectacular for the flowering trees and freshly mown lawns. Sergeant Miller’s niece, Kay Miller Debow, with the assistance of the abundantly friendly and respectful staff of the cemetery, made a rubbing of her uncle’s stone. After, she rubbed sand from the beaches of Normandy into the letters of the familiar name, washed the stone, and stood back to note how Edward’s name now stood out from the rest of the whiteness. What an honor it was to be there, to be part of this journey which began across the German border more than eighty years ago, and which continues with relatives who do not want their sacrifice to be forgotten.

    In fact, honor was the word most exchanged in Margraten that day. The staff commented several times that it is an honor for them to care for the grave of the men who protected the country from the Nazis and liberated them not long after Edward Miller’s death. Kay commented what an honor it was to meet the people who look after so many fallen American’s, and the family who cares for his grave drove to meet her and brought flowers for her uncle and said it has been their family’s honor to be able to do so since the end of World War Two.

    I don’t hear the word honor anymore. It was an emotional day for the obvious reasons, but also for what no longer seems to be so common: honor, respect, sacrifice, gratefulness.

    It was a beautiful day; clear blue skies and a soft sixty degrees. I’ve known Kay since we were young, before the world slipped into our lives with all of its competition and anger; before Kay’s own service in the United States Air Force, before the world invented a way to sit at a table, logon, and find fallen soldiers, back when Sergeant Miller had been gone just forty or so years. That was a lifetime ago. Several. And I looked out at the crosses and wondered how many families in the States take the time to come to this remote, country town to pay their respects to someone who never made it home again to see their mom; never returned home again to get back together with an old flame and get on with their lives; never saw the sunsets and distant beauty of a morning mist.

    Still, I could not understand why this was so much more emotional than the internment of my own uncle at Arlington. Then it struck me as I watched Kay place her hand on Edward’s headstone while no one was nearby: She never knew him. I knew my uncle; we laughed at parties together, and he showed up at my parents’ anniversary parties and always laughed with us, told stories. He died when my son was already in his twenties, and when my cousin’s kids were adults. Edward Miller died when his brother, Kay’s own father, was still a child.

    Eric Van Heugten, the man who brings flowers to the grave and whose family has done so now for eighty years, stood next to me along with our host, Roel Timmermans, as I looked about and said, mostly to myself, “These men were the same exact age as my students.” That is what I couldn’t shake. That’s the difference. When I’m in class and my students are reading their text messages or staring out the windows, I look at them on the front edge of their lives, many of them living away from home for the first time, and they are the same age as the soldiers beneath the soil of Margraten. Eight thousand of them. More. Eight thousand men still teenagers and in their early twenties who never chose a major, never asked anyone out, never got back in touch with an old friend and said, “I’m so glad you’re home.” Because when someone you love goes to war, you simply don’t have a clue if you’ll ever see them again, and it’s terrifying.

    And I don’t think my students understand that, or even understand the honor it is to be alive at all. I wish I could bring them all to Margraten, or the American National Cemetery at Normandy, or any of the other thirty-one cemeteries in seventeen nations which forever hold the remains of men who just learned to shave, just learned to drive. Just fell in love.

    RIP Sergeant Edward L. Miller. You’d be proud of your niece and all of those who served with her in yet another war, this one in the Gulf.

    Vocabulary list for my very-much-alive twenty-year-old students: Honor. Sacrifice. Gratefulness. Loss. Mortality. Love.

    Love.