JACK MASSEY WAS taken prisoner by the Germans during WWII. His unit was captured late in the European campaign and he was placed at the Stalag VII-A camp in Moosberg, the largest POW camp in Germany, filled with an odd assortment of American, British, French, Belgian, and Russian servicemen, officers and enlisted men.
Ah, how I love fall. It’s a nearly perfect season when hillsides are filled with splashes of vibrant crimson and gold. A time when nature’s chilling breeze orchestrates a blissful dance of leaves drifting to the ground.
At age nineteen, I was living in what was Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, had recently finished High School, and was studying further by correspondence through Cambridge University. Back then, there was no such thing as on-line!
Whenever I do ventured to his porch, the purpose was to either collect the newspaper which the newsboy cast from the sidewalk with trepidation or gather the mail from the skewered mailbox which sat on a flimsy pole, and encased in vines along the dilapidated fence.
Death is sort of a strange thing. When it happens, there is a flurry of activity: emotion, thought, sensation. It all just wooshes by like wind being pushed out of an inflatable raft. What’s left is just the shell, a flat, sad, pathetic little reminder of what used to be. Unlife was totally, totally worse.
There were three life-changing experiences that filled my summer months in the year 1994—what seems like a lifetime ago. First, my boyfriend was transferred to Baltimore and asked me to move in with him.