Mountain Views News          Saturday, May 28, 2011

Mountain Views News 80 W Sierra Madre Blvd. No. 327 Sierra Madre, Ca. 91024 Office: 626.355.2737 Fax: 626.609.3285 Email: editor@mtnviewsnews.com Website: www.mtnviewsnews.com

America The Beautiful

Celebrating Memorial Day 2011 by Craig Hakola


I had been traversing New York City for a week 
and I was checking off the final items on my list 
before my departure on Tuesday. On this morning 
I was traveling out to take the Staten Island Ferry 
to see the Statue of Liberty, and then I would be 
heading north by foot to snap a few pictures of the 
Brooklyn Bridge, before spending the remainder 
of the afternoon celebrating the Memorial Day 
weekend in Times Square with everyone else. For 
the past two days the triangle of Times Square 
had been swelling in the anticipation of the big 
celebration and I was eager to get down there as 
well. 

I walked several blocks from my hotel and made 
my way down a flight of stairs to the subway 
platform where I believed the correct subway was 
departing for lower Manhattan and the Statue of 
Liberty. I wanted to double-check my directional 
skills so I probed a couple passengers to confirm I 
was migrating in the proper direction. The people 
of the subway were uncomfortable in giving me 
any information, which I thought was rather odd, 
but maybe New Yorkers considered it best to 
not mingle with strangers in the confines of the 
subway? I continued my quest and approached a 
gentleman and his wife. “Am I taking the correct 
subway for lower Manhattan?” He took a measure 
of me and then responded in a rich French accent, 
“Why does an American ask a Frenchman for 
directions in America,” peppering his comment 
in a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders? “You 
know of trains far better than we Americans,” I 
quickly countered. Appearing to appease his half 
joke, half serious tone. As I further added that I 
was from California and our diet did not consist 
of trains. “Where are you going,” the Frenchman 
asked? “I am heading to see a French gift,” as I 
returned his wry smile with a ripe one. Which 
caused him to reach into his pocket and unfurl 
a rather large map of the catacombs of the New 
York subway system. “I was there just yesterday, it 
is beautiful,” he added, with a sense of ownership. 
Five minutes later and he has given me a tutorial 
of the entire New York transportation system with 
a color-coding lesson and extolled the greatness 
of France and the flowering vineyards which 
populate the landscape of his country. I thanked 
him, and he firmly grasped my hand and told me 
of the treat that was in store for me.

I was the first one in line for the next ferry, so I took 
the opportunity to make my way to the front of 
the boat where it was open. The day was a portrait 
of perfection and the Statue of Liberty appeared 
ever part the image of the stories I had read of the 
immigrants discovering the sacred woman of hope 
upon the completion of a long voyage. How many 
people had passed beneath her torch and marked 
her face the place of promise and how many tears 
had she comforted in her port? My mind lingered 
in the thought of selling all of one’s possessions to 
pay for passage on a ship and the grief of having 
a single last embrace for your family and friends 
that were left behind. It appeared every part the 
desperate act of a great gamble to me. Forsaking 
one’s history and abandoning one’s people for the 
whispers of a dreamy land across the length of an 
Ocean, there was a type of strange magic in the 
thought of it all. Traveling to the ends of the world 
in the great quest for hope. How their hearts must 
have sung with joy upon the sight of her torch, 
and how their burdens must have vanished upon 
her gaze. 

I had touched her spirit as well and saw her torch. 
There is no beauty like hers in all the world. The 
ferry docked in Battery Park and I ventured along 
the water until the Brooklyn Bridge came into 
view. Off to my left was the bridge, about a half-
mile up the river and directly across the street 
from me was a large landing area for helicopters. 
Throughout the morning I had seen helicopters 
buzzing the skies of New York City. They did not 
flutter as tourist adventures but navigated upon 
crisp lines and firm directions. I sat myself upon 
a slab of concrete and spied the frantic activity of 
helicopters coming and going. There were five on 
the landing area in a single moment with a mixture 
of military, civilian and charter aircraft comprising 
the grouping. Each pilot counting seconds as the 
propellers crawled but never ceased to spin, with 
the captains waited to take on, or jettisoned a cargo 
of passengers. A large Osprey helicopter landed 
in the center landing area. Quickly taking on its 
passengers and flipping its propellers toward the 
ground and surging from the landing area. So it 
went, a few choppers would settle and a few would 
take flight in a pageantry of dragon flies dancing 
in and out, and then, occasionally, a massive stork 
would swoop down from the sky and splash upon 
the middle of the landing area as the other small 
helicopters sprinkled about on the perimeters. 
One such stork descended from the sky and 
landed a single military man in a smart flight suit. 
He exited the chopper and gave the pilot a nod of 
his head before rapidly moving across three lanes 
of heavy traffic, jumping a median and navigating 
the other side of the street while passing me at 
arms length. Surly, he was an important man to 
control such an entrance. There must have been 
a number of such people lining the streets of New 
York this holiday weekend.

I had made it a point to venture down to Times 
Square each day. I could feel the pulse of the city 
in that place and I wanted to touch the heart of 
the city for as long as I could. There was a visual 
excitement leaving Central Park and turning 
unto 58th Street and scanned the long corridor 
of buildings and the distance signage of Times 
Square, which rose as a forest of moving lights 
upon the middle of the street. I had made a game 
of picking out the New Yorkers and those from out 
of town as I walked the streets. The New Yorkers 
brandished oversized purses which had little 
chance of fitting in an overhead compartment, 
and they did not consider it a crime to batter 
pedestrians among the crowded streets of New 
York with their shoulder hanging purses. The New 
Yorkers always sprang a step faster from the curb 
than other people (that is, if they were forced to 
waiting for a light). They were point A to point 
B type of people and they didn’t lug out as a tired 
horse when they hustled upon the streets as others 
did, but stayed upon straight lines. They were the 
first to range out into the street and dodged traffic 
as a modern day bullfighters and they proffered 
their horn to save the effort of a finger. 

As I came into Times Square the traffic swelled 
to a halt. Over the last few days the military 
personnel had been coalescing in this area and the 
streets were lined with cleanly pressed uniforms. 
The navy band was playing in the middle of Times 
Square and a group of several hundred people 
circled the musicians as they filled the streets with 
the jubilant sounds of a post World War II era 
beat. It was approaching five in the evening and I 
decided to find a restaurant/bar for a bite of food 
and a drink. 

I located a nice restaurant that had seating 
available at the bar, close to Broadway. I ordered a 
drink and sat upon the reflection of the day. A few 
minutes later and a young married couple from 
Birmingham, England, took up residence next to 
me and our conversation quickly moved to soccer 
and the impending World Cup Match, which pitted 
America and England. Being from Birmingham, 
they were born into this world to love soccer, and 
they gave me the unabridged English strategy 
against us. Another forty-five minutes later they 
thanked me for their visit to my beautiful country, 
and added, “Good luck in the match,” as they 
departed. I spoke with the bartender about New 
York and the people as they left and another 
couple took control of their seats. It was an older 

gentleman and his daughter this time, and they 
were from England as well, but called the city of 

Bristol their home. The two were exceedingly well 
read and appeared to pry as much from books as 

the first couple had from soccer. They offered 
many rays of insight into England and America. 
We must have spoken for an hour on politics, 
art, and the topic of the day, healthcare. Halfway 
through our conversation the gentleman turned 
to more serious tone, “America is going to have 
to bail England out of our financial mess.” As 
they reminded me, that they were not part of the 
European Union. I laughed and added, “We will 
try, I only hope we can save ourselves as well.” 
They finally rose and wished me a delightful 
night. They had shared many endearing stories 
of their various adventures in New York, and said 
of all their travels across the globe, “There was no 
place like New York.” As certain as they left, and 
having every sense of timing, a most intriguing 
couple assumed their still warm seats. They were 
Brazilian, and he immediately took to quizzing 
me upon possession of their seats. “Who is your 
favorite musical artist?” Being in New York and 
channeling the spirit of the city, “Frank Sinatra,” 
naturally squirted from my lips. I could see by his 
expression on his face that a key had been placed 
in a lock. His wife had brought art to New York to 
display at an exhibit down the block and the two 
were celebrating their anniversary. They spoke 
about how much they loved the great City of New 
York. They considered the Empire State Building 
a great monument to beauty, and the two dined in 
the building each year on their anniversary. They 
repeatedly told me throughout the night, “You 
don’t understand what a great country you have 
here.” There was a dual sense of veneration mixed 
with desperation in his voice, one that attempted 
to convey the deeper understating of his heart. He 
explained where he and his wife had came from 
and I sensed in his words the belief in his mind 
that one must travel extensively to understand the 
singular uniqueness of America. He told me that 
he needed to go to his room and instructed his 
wife to stay with me and talk. Ten minutes later 
and he reappeared with a CD. “I am a singer and 
these are my Frank Sinatra songs, I would like you 
to have it for your travels.” There was a warmth in 
these two that bond the human heart and I wished 
that they would never depart. He offered me a 
long friendly glance before they left that night. 
I am sure he was hoping that his words and the 
deep feelings for the country he loved, and was 
not a citizen of was somehow imparted to me.

It had been a very long day and I been at the 
restaurant for over four hours. I was looking 
forward to the walk to my hotel, but curiosity 
had become the better part of me, and I could not 
leave the bar until I discover the next party to sit 
upon those chairs. Within a few short minutes 
and I would have my answer.

A couple of ordinary Americans plopped 
themselves in the seats next to me. It appeared the 
string of luck had ended. Little did I know I was 
about to discover the greatness of America in its 
most tangible form. The three groups of foreigners 
that I spoke with that day had instructed me on 
the greatness of America. These two were out 
there fighting for it. The other soldiers that I had 
previously seen in the city were wearing uniforms, 
but these two were camouflage in civilian clothes. 
“I thought military personnel were supposed to be 
wearing uniforms,” I questioned?

“Our uniforms were soiled the night before and 
we cannot discuss it.” I chuckled at the thought, 
there must have been a humorous story attached 
to that telling. A few beers in and the stories that 
Michael King would tell me began to trouble my 
soul, fighting in Afghanistan. Twice a roadside 
bomb had blown up the truck he was in. In each 
case the vehicle he was in was destroyed. One of 
the bombs had killed his best friend and Michael 
only survived the explosion because of where he 
was stationed in the vehicle, the top. He repeated 
a line several times that night, “You don’t know 
what is like to lose your best friend, see him killed 
in front of you. I can never explain that feeling to 
you!” 

The two were young kids, and they deserved to 
be out frolicking on a Saturday night with their 
girlfriends in Tennessee, instead of the deadly 
world of Afghanistan. I have met many young 
men of their age, but I can seldom mark such 
youth with the decisive word, Character. Here 
I had found myself spending an evening in the 
capital of glamour and each person that I had 
spoken to that night was here for that reason, but 
they were not here for that alone, for there was an 
underlining current to each conversation from 
my foreign friends, the beauty and reality of the 
American Spirit. Sitting in the seats next to me 
was the best example of that spirit. These two men 
had not entered the military to acquire wealth, 
and whatever sense of adventure the two may 
have felt as they enrolled was long since stripped 
by the realities of war. They were purpose driven 
people and trying to deliver a sense of good to the 
world. Michael was going to reenlist the following 
week, and I wondered after all he had told me that 
night; how he could do it. His burden seemed too 
much for my mind. Maybe he felt it more a risk 
to not return and leave the many things undone 
that he knew must occur to give those people of 
Afghanistan a place of peace. I knew those two 
soldieries carried an unfair burden though, and 
was I certain of that fact. This incredible young 
man, Michael, would be forced to carry the ghosts, 
and have to harbor the memory of another, his 
best friend, for the remainder of his life. These 
two were thoughtful people and could have been 
poets in another life and their sense of duty and 
good made you damned concerned about their 
wellbeing. 

It was well past one in the morning as I walked 
along Central Park and up 5th Street. I am thinking 
about those last two people that sat next to me. 
For the first time in my visit to New York City a 
peace has overtaken the city. There are no cars 
on this stretch of road and the only noises are the 
boisterous birds of the trees. It is not like New 
York at all on this night, it is different!

Before you comfortably place your head upon 
your pillow each evening, may you find it in your 
heart to offer them a moment and add the dear 
people of the military to your prayers. They have 
promised their names to the struggle for peace on 
earth and liberty, and some have eternally pledged 
their life.

craighakola@aol.com 

 

CELEBRATE WITH US!

Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 3208

Sierra Madre, California

Invites the Public To

Memorial Day Ceremonies At

Sierra Madre Pioneer Cemetery

Monday May 30, 2011 At 11:00 am

Mark Your Calendars!

Sierra Madre 4th 
of July Weekend 
Festivities

Saturday, July 2nd

All-new: Sierra Madre Community 
Picnic at Sierra Vista Park 

3 pm – Dusk

Bring your picnic basket and join us for an 
afternoon of games, food, and community. 
We will have games in the park, a Home Run Derby and softball games at 
Heasley field, and the pool will be open! There will also be ice cream and 
snacks for sale throughout the afternoon. AND don’t miss the Beer AND 
WINE Garden at Sierra Vista Park in the Community Recreation Center 
Patio! What a way to kick off what promises to be an exciting and fun-
filled weekend!

Sunday, July 3rd

Beer Garden and Concert in the Park at Memorial Park 5 pm – 10 pm

Tradition continues as the Beer Garden makes it annual appearance, 
benefiting the Sierra Madre Little League and the Volunteer 4th of July 
Committee! Mercy and the Merkettes will be performing and promise to 
keep all of us moving and grooving to hits from today and yesterday. And 
the evening would not be complete without Sierra Madre’s own version of 
fireworks: Bubble Wrap Fireworks at Dusk! 

Monday, July 4th:

All-new: Sierra Madre’s Firecracker Family Fun Run

This 5k race starts at 7 am and follows the parade route. Check-in begins 
at 6 am at Kersting Court. Come get your feet moving and be part of what 
promises to be another amazing Sierra Madre tradition! Register on-site, 
at the Community Recreation Center or online at www.cityofsierramadre.
com/onlineregistration. Do so by June 20th to guarantee your t-shirt! 

Sierra Madre’s World Famous 4th of July Parade, 10 am

Let’s line the streets for the annual parade that is true 
Americana at its finest. This year, we honor Gayle Bluemel as 
our 2011 4th of July Grand Marshal for her outstanding service 
and life-long dedication to our Sierra Madre schools and 
community. We also honor Sierra Madre resident John Shear 
with our Hometown Hero Award for his spontaneous act of 
selfless heroism in jumping in front of a charging horse to save 
a young girl’s life. To participate in the parade, register at www.
cityofsierramadre.com/onlineregistration. 

Memorial Park Festivities, 12noon 

And join us after the parade at High Noon in Memorial Park for games, 
face painting, balloons, food, and music by the Nightbloomin’ Jazzmen. 
The Beer Garden will also be open!


WISTARIA 
THRIFT SHOP 
BROWN BAG SALE 
Fill up your bag for only $3.00 
SATURDAY, JUNE 4, 2011 
STARTING AT 11 am to 4pm 
THRIFT SHOP PARKING LOT 
550 W. Sierra Madre Blvd. 
Sierra Madre, CA, 91024 
626 355-7739 
Parking lot located on 
Sunnyside Avenue 
The shop will be open on 
Memorial Day, May 30th 
9am to 3pm. 
75% off on all items. 
Proceeds are donated to the 
charities supported by the 
Sierra Madre Woman’s Club. . 
Donations Welcome! 
Please drop off donated items before 
3pm Monday-Friday, or Saturday when shop is open. 
Thank you