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Burns : What are you doing, Godfrey? You're a villain, not some bullet-brained rail-splitter! Without someone to hate, there's no excitement, no thrill!
Apu : Oh no no no. It is I who will be watching Picasso's TV tonight! Bart : Mine's full of hand mirrors.
Lisa : I've got perfume spritzers. Marge : Makeup and baby oil? Ohh, this stupid old locker must have belonged to some old lady. Lisa [ reading the box ]: "Property of Abraham J. My dad was married to a woman who left him because he ignored her needs for decades! Old gay men are adorable, like wrinkle dogs in a wrinkle dog calendar. They even had a gay float in the Pride Parade last year. Maybe if we help him be who he is, he'll finally be happy!
We know the truth, and we love you. The contents of that locker are my private business! Get out! Wonderful older man seeks life partner before rapidly encroaching death. Marge : How about some fatties? Homer [ annoyed ]:Fine. Marge : Okay, post this under "Men seeking men" Hmm, nothing too serious, Here we go: "Casual encounters".
No pressure. Grampa : Huh? What the heck are you talking about, Spectacles? Smithers : Oh, I've been hung up on someone for years, but I'm trapped in the friend zone. Grampa : So move on, you're blocking the ducks. Marge : Don't you want to be happy, Abe? Admit who you are: a wonderful gay man. I don't ride side-saddle! I'm straight as a submarine! Homer : Then how do you explain this? Burns : Oh, hello Smithers. Fancy seeing you in "Casual Encounter Park". In , the care and administration of the National Monument was transferred to the National Park Service. On September 7, , jurisdiction was enlarged to encompass all of Bedloe's Island and in , the island's name was changed to Liberty Island.
A team of French and American architects, engineers, and conservators came together to determine what was needed to ensure the Statue's preservation into the next century. In , scaffolding was erected around the exterior of the Statue and construction began on the interior. Workers repaired holes in the copper skin and removed layers of paint from the interior of the copper skin and internal iron structure.
They replaced the rusting iron armature bars which joined the copper skin to the Statue's internal skeleton with stainless steel bars. The flame and upper portion of the torch had been severely damaged by water and was replaced with an exact replica of Bartholdi's original torch, which was gilded according to Bartholdi's original plans.
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We must carry on the task they left for us. We must pay our share of the cost of Victory. Their share is paid. Grandpa wrote about this trip in the one surviving letter I have from this time. My Dear Inis, I know you think I am mean the way I am staying away, and I kinda think so myself, I intended coming home today but they talked me in the notion of staying over until Mon as my co will be here then with the th Inf. I am not doing much running around just taking it easy, am going to the ball game this afternoon.
I hope it has dried up at home by now, or by the time I get there. I stay in St. Joe Wed night and Thurs. Saw Lieut. Carson on the street was glad to see him, also heard that Harry Carder was in the states. Well I think I will be home Mon or Tues and I will try and get down and fuss with you as I believe you were feeling that way when I talked to you Wed, from town.
This letter suggests to me that Grandma felt over-looked. While Grandpa was making sense of his war experience through speeches and reunions, I imagine Grandma was sorting out her own feelings, including her expectation that they would been engaged by now. One day, or maybe over a couple of days, those feelings came back to her in an unexpected and haunting way. In the mail, she received two letters she had written Grandpa in February, when he was still in France. He never read these letters, but now she would, again.
Two letters came back to Grandma, one above postmarked June 20, from Junction City Camp Funston and the second below , postmarked on reverse, June 19, also from Funston. February 16, letter Grandma sent to Grandpa, returned mid-June. She folded the letters and slipped them back in the envelopes. She put them in the box with all the others, tied with a string.
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Did she feel sad at these memories, so sweet, so certain? Or did anger cloud her feelings at a time she felt he was pushing her away? This surprised me. The letters they exchanged over the spring, just weeks before his return, were filled with a shared dream, it seemed, of settling down. In time they did make a life together, but it would take nearly ten months—from April, , to January, —to break and repair their wartime romance.
Daddy with Grandma, , on a vacation in Wisconsin. Many years later, about the time this photograph was taken, Grandma cranked a piece of paper into her portable typewriter and began recording her memories. Grandpa had died—in —and I imagine my father thought it was time for Grandma to fix her life story in print.
When he reached King City he called me, rented a horse and buggy and came out to our house for dinner.
I went home with him for a few days. She gave no details on the nature of their quarrel. What could have gone so wrong? I only have two clues. Like Grandpa, he had been drafted for service in Missouri in Madison, which lies to the east of King City , trained at Camp Funston, and sent to France, where a war injury placed him in the same convalescent facility as Grandpa. It was there, in a hospital complex that served thousands of American soldiers, that the two men first met and discovered that each had the same picture of Grandma tucked in their wallets.
In the clipping shown here, the names of Mr. King City Chronicle , 1 August , p. Grandma vividly recalled a summer visit with her aunt and uncle, one that apparently started before this August event reported in the newspaper. Early that summer Uncle Dot Franks were up from Madison. They insisted that Mary, me and Dorothy and Sidney go home with them for a two weeks vacation, and they would bring us back.
What was supposed to be two weeks lasted most all summer. What a time we had, for they were fine hosts. Aunt Susie was also good at seeing that everyone had a date. Had Stanley Brown crowded into her friendship with Grandpa? He was injured, tired, burdened now with helping his year-old father run a farm. The war had changed both the dreams and the dreamers. It appeared in the booklet, Souvenir of Camp Grant, Ill. Most of these souvenir booklets were published in late or early When I look at this photo, I let my imagination sort out its meaning.
On April 6, in the letter posted here, he told Grandma that he had walked around camp with his hometown King City, Missouri buddy Oda Fuller, before coming back to the dorm to take a nap. I see him on the cot, looking directly us—at Grandma, his family, his future, as well as his immediate past. He is surrounded by the trappings of a life forced on him, some 18 months earlier. Like thousands of other men of his generation, he wore a regulation coat, hat and uniform, carried a regulation pack, slept in a cot that was identical to all the others, and stored his boots and other items in one of the simple wooden boxes that were placed at even intervals on scrubbed wooden floors.
In this dormitory, light comes in from a window in the distance and, given the shadows, from windows on the right. Not shown, but present I imagine, is the burden of memories my grandfather carried. The memories of the miserable conditions at the front, of making a bed in the mud and being grateful to live another day. The memories of jumping over bodies of his dead comrades as he raced forward in battle, or beat a hasty retreat to safety.
The enduring memory of being wounded, now sketched into his right arm, a permanent and daily reminder of his service. I look at that lone soldier on his cot, thinking he represents my grandfather, and wonder about one more thing. Is he ready to face the new unknown, ready to go home to a place that, like himself, has been changed by the experience of war?
Again a line to let you know I am thinking of you and how I am. This is Sunday eve just think of what next Sunday may be. It is awfully warm and has been all day.
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I think it will rain tonight, tried to last night but only sprinkled. Well I got up at four oclock this morn and worked until noon then afternoon I cleaned up and Oda and I walked over to the edge of the camp, came back and laid on my bed the rest of the afternoon.
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There was lots of visitors here today so many boys here from Chicago and their people come out to see them. We had ice cream and cookies for dinner today. Some of the boys said they was feeding them that trying to induce them to reenlist. Well my love as I have run out of anything to write I will close, sending lots of Love and Kisses. Rarely, in his wartime letters, did Grandpa allow emotions to spill out onto the page. He had followed the advice of the army, and in fact was subject to their censorship, to keep letters upbeat and generic.
The war effort would be successful, the argument went, if civilians and soldiers alike remained cheerful and optimistic. The letter posted below, dated April 5, , stands out as an exception to that practice. But tucked between the lines are suggestions that Grandpa felt anxious about going home. How would people greet him? Would life be the same? Were his parents all right, not having received mail from them? The moment of truth, he imagined, would come when he stepped off the train. I mean the townspeople. So I would rather they not know exactly when. This passage surprised me.
Yes, I knew my grandfather to be a proud and sometimes stubborn man, but did he not fully understand how the townspeople wanted to celebrate his return? The people of King City, and those who farmed nearby, had known him his entire life. Was it wrong for them to want a return on their investment of hope and goodwill? Was it wrong to celebrate the return of men like my grandfather? Not in my mind. Nor was it wrong for Grandpa to refuse it. He had no responsibility to be the hero or brave soldier or whatever else the townspeople wanted him to be.
He was coming home, but on his own terms. This was a decision that carried consequences he may not have imagined that day, as he hatched a plan to slip back into town, unannounced. Soldiers, their upraised arms eerily similar in shape to the bare tree branches behind them, engage in exercises or drills at Camp Grant.
Signal Corps, in what seems to be a carefully staged photo to demonstrate disciplined precision. Troops share a meal during field training. These images from Camp Grant refer to military training before the war. Only a word tonight to let you know I am still feeling fine. I just now took a bath in cold water so you see I am not very timid. But I never was that way was I? I have been working in the kitchen this afternoon. Got through pretty early, I got your letter today written the 30 th of March.
Was a good newsy one, was glad to hear of you being aunt. I know you are proud. Wish I could have gone with you for the cows this eve. But wont be long. Think of it. Eighteen months day before yesterday since I went to Funston.