Growing up, World War II was in the movies, on TV and in our classrooms. It felt close. Everywhere. I knew my dad had served in the war, as had his three brothers, uncles on my mom’s side, neighbors. It fascinated me, it was exotic, a grand adventure. It was scary but not really scary because, after all, there he was. There they were. Our guys had won.

That’s my dad Mike on the left. Brother George Knezovich center and Dave Knezovich on the right. Steve Knezovich, not pictured, also served in the Navy.

My best friend’s dad — and our Little League coach — had been there, too. In the infantry. One time when I was at my buddy’s house (they had a pool table in the basement!) my friend showed me some German medals that his dad had squirreled away in their basement. We could only imagine.

As much as I wanted to know about my dad’s experience  — all their experiences — I didn’t get much. Which was more or less par for the course. My father wasn’t an extreme introvert but on the blabbermouth scale –1 being painfully quiet and 10 being verbally incontinent — I’d put him at a three. And he was pretty typical I think.

But he was tightlipped even by his own standards about his time overseas. I mean, he was in the VFW. He got the American Legion magazine. He went to the patriotic parades. But he only talked about his time stationed in France once with me. He’d been at a company softball game and drank one of his infrequent beers there.

That evening I learned how he and countless others fought seasickness on the Liberty Boats – seafaring cattle cars for troops — on the way over. He was not on the front lines, he was in the medic corps, at least I think he called it that. He took care of guys who’d been shipped to hospitals behind the lines for care. It included a little bit of everything, including some direct care, shuttling the wounded between facilities — and shuttling the dead. It was maybe a 10-minute window on his wartime experience in the TV room of our little house. I was sitting on the couch; he was lying on the floor in front of the TV, as he liked to do. I wish I’d had a tape recorder. But that was it.

He hadn’t been on the front lines and yet, I could tell he’d seen some awful stuff. Sometimes I look back and wonder if my dad didn’t talk about his experience much because of what he saw or because of what he hadn’t seen but knew that others had. One of his brothers had been on the front lines and I learned later that it changed him forever. An avid hunter before the war, he would not touch a gun again according to one relative. But that wasn’t the only change — he suffered mightily and it undoubtedly not only changed him but cut his life short. Over the past few years, I’ve made a good friend, a Viet Nam veteran, who has wrestled with PTSD ever since his time in the jungle. Surviving war is just the first step for lots of folks, and it’s always been that way.

I got to thinking about all this because, of course, Veterans Day approaches, and with it, remembrances and rituals (including blockbuster sales events). And special reports. I heard one Sunday morning on Bob Edwards Weekend. It was about medical staff who treated the wounded in the jungles of Viet Nam in the late 1960s.

It wasn’t easy to listen to, but it was riveting and poignant. I couldn’t find it online anywhere except here:

https://soundcloud.com/search?q=Stories%20from%20Third%20Med%3A%20Surviving%20a%20Jungle%20ER

It’s in four 15-minute parts. Any of the segments reminds that war is terror and butchery and it forces people to give up their humanity just to survive. No glory there.

There’s going to be a lot of blah blah around Veterans Day like there is around everything these days. Things get sort of mixed up. On one hand, there is nothing glorious about war, and fear sometimes we forget that and try to glorify veterans — and from my experience, it’s not what they want. On the other hand, I think about my dad — probably the most gentle man I’ve ever known — being put in the position he was put in. And that makes me think about everyone that has been put in that position. I don’t know how they did it.

I feel grateful that I never faced it. But I’m not a pacifist and so I’m grateful for those who have faced it. And I feel absolutely sick that without question, we’ve put people in that awful position unnecessarily way too much.

Mostly, I realize that no amount of parades, ceremonies, or expressions of gratitude can balance the books with these people. While we honor their service, we are obligated to do whatever we can to avoid requiring it.

I practiced with Whitney ahead of time, so when the Dukes of Distinction presentation started Thursday night, we knew exactly what to do: follow fellow

That’s the York High School Commons all done up for the ceremony.

distinguished alum Dr. Robert Chen (“I go by Bob, he said when we were introduced) down the red carpet, stop when Bob stops, and pivot 90 degrees to the left to face our audience. Whitney guided me beautifully, and as the audience cheered, I gave Bob a nudge.

“It all feels a little odd, doesn’t it?” I whispered. Bob agreed. He’s a leader in immunization research at the U.S. Centers for Disease Control, and he’s working now on HIV prevention research at the CDC and serves on the World Health Organization’s HIV Vaccine Advisory Committee. I’m guessing he’s won an award or two before. “The organizers are all taking it so seriously, though,” he whispered back. “You don’t want to disappoint them.”

And you know what? We didn’t. The event was well-organized, the room was full of positive energy and pride, we kept our talks relatively short, and everyone enjoyed the assortment of chocolate covered strawberries, brownies and cookies — especially Floey’s five-year-old little brother Ray, the youngest person there.

Hearing my brother Doug play at Fitzgerald’s was a perfect way to celebrate afterwards, and the alarm rang way too soon the next morning: all of the Dukes of Distinction had to be back at York at 7:30 a.m. to spend the day visiting classes. An entourage of high-energy well-organized students whisked us from one twenty -minute visit to the next, and after a while, I lost track of how many there were in all. I do know we visited:

• a gym class (they were doing yoga!)
• an animal behavior class
• a creative writing class
• a children’s literature class
• a calculus class
• the student newspaper staff
• three different sophomore English classes
• A concert band rehearsal
• and a partridge in a pear tree.

My sisters Cheryl, Marilee and Bev came along with Whitney and me to all these classes, and all four of us were surprised at how much we enjoyed the calculus class. Leslie Davis Stipe (a friend from my York High School days) teaches that class, and she explained that it’s a “flipped classroom.” She makes videos explaining how to do calculations, students watch the video on their smartphones, home computers or at lunch in their high school’s high-tech Commons, and they can repeat the video as many times as necessary to help them understand. They return the next day to do what we used to call “homework” together in class. When we arrived, Leslie was circulating around the class while the students worked in small groups to do their exercises. It was great to see technology being used to make the most of a real-life teacher’s ability instead of trying to substitute for human interaction. Some other highlights:

• The sophomore English students were all reading short stories and studying “identity.” One student asked if I thought my identity changed after I lost my sight. Another wanted to know if my sense of beauty changed, too.
• The boys and girls cross country teams were heading to state championships in Peoria this weekend, and the band was coming along to play and cheer them on. When I told the band kids how much I used to love those bus trips, and that a lot always happened in the back of the bus, they laughed in agreement. It was reassuring to know some things really don’t change.
• A creative writing student asked if it was hard for me to write without being able to see. “I don’t mean physically typing,” he said. “I mean, is it hard to describe things to readers?”
• When the journalism teacher asked if anyone had one last question, a boy said he did. “Is it just me, or is that the most beautiful dog anyone has ever seen?”

Late in the day I had a one-on-one talk with a 16-year-old student who is losing her sight due to Stargardt’s disease. She seemed relieved when I told her I know what that is. I understood. “It’s nice to not have to explain that stuff all the time, isn’t it?”

We shared stories about friends who stick with us, and how difficult it is to learn Braille. She told me she might be going on a college visit early next year — it’s being arranged especially for high school students with visual impairments. They’ll go as a group to a number of colleges in the Chicago area. Each trip will include a talk by someone in the students with disabilities office.

By the end of our visit, she and I decided we’d try to arrange a presentation both of us could do together sometime. I’ll do my normal shtick, and she can demonstrate some of the new technology she uses to keep up with sighted friends her age.

York’s principal, Diana Smith, caught up with me at the end of the day and said she’d already heard from that student. “She told me visiting with you was the best thing that’s happened to her in high school.” If any of you blog readers are interested in having this 16-year-old and me come speak at your school, civic group, library, whatever, please leave your contact info in the comments here.

When 3:30 finally came around yesterday I was totally exhausted. I’ve said it before, but it’s worth repeating: teachers should be paid wayyyyyyyy more than they are now. Everyone should visit their old high school, too. I can’t promise you’d be given the royal treatment that I was (I was treated more like a Queen than a Duke) but boy, is it worth the trip.

Tomorrow’s the big day. Every year York Community High School in Elmhurst, Illinois honors a number of distinguished alumni, and six other York alumni will be honored along with me at a ceremony in York High School’s Commons tomorrow night. York is the “home of the Dukes,” so honorees are officially called Dukes of Distinction.

And so, tomorrow night, I get my crown.

Okay, it’s just a plaque. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

The reception begins at 7 p.m., and the program follows at 7:30 p.m. Mike has ordered a Zipcar to get my Seeing Eye dog and me there in time to practice walking on the red carpet. I know, I know. Sounds like a punchline, right? But it’s true! My sister Cheryl lives in Elmhurst and has made multiple trips to the school district office with photos and memorabilia from my York days, two other sisters are coming in from out-of-state, and my eight-year-old great niece Floey will be joining them at the head table along with Mike, Whitney and me. From the District 205 web site:

That evening, seven alumni will be recognized at a celebratory reception followed by a recognition program during which they will speak. The event is free and open to the public (no ticket necessary). The following day, November 7, honorees will present to and interact with York students in large and small group settings.

And wait! There’s more! My brother Doug is coming in from Louisville tomorrow night, too! I’ve written about Doug here before. He’s a professional jazz trombonist, and tomorrow night he’s performing at Fitzgerald’s in nearby Berwyn, Ill. with Petra’s Recession Seven, a Chicago-style early swing/trad jazz band:

Thursday, November 6 Petra’s Recession Seven –
Petra with trumpeter Bob Ojeda, clarinetist Kim Cusack, guitarist Andy Brown, bassist Joe Policastro, drummer Bob Rummage,
and special guest trombonist Doug Finke
7:30-10:30 pm
Fitzgerald’s www.fitzgeraldsnightclub.com
6615 Roosevelt Rd. Berwyn, IL 708-788-2118
$10 cover

That’s Doug: Has trombone, will travel.

Flo took my sisters and me along to hear Doug perform with the Original Salty Dogs Jazz Band when we were little, and we all grew up listening to the jazz records he left behind when he embarked on his music career. Louis Armstrong, Hot Five and Hot Seven. King Oliver. Lil Hardin.

Flo went to York High School, and all of my sisters and brothers graduated from York, too. What better way to celebrate my new dukedom than to dance to Doug’s music with Mike and my sisters. Not sure how awake I’ll be when “presenting and interacting” with high school students at York the next morning, though!

I don’t know about you, but the election campaigns have me exhausted. Back in 2012 Illinois really wasn’t in play in the presidential election, and there weren’t particularly hot, high-profile races, so we got off easy. Not so this time. The governor’s race is a dead heat, and there are some house races in play.

I don’t even watch that much TV but I’m numb to the campaign ads. The foreboding music straight from a serial killer movie, the concerned voiceovers warning you that candidate A will dissect and eat your children if elected. And then the same thing, immediately after, about candidate B.

Politics are a mess, we’re more polarized than I can remember in my lifetime. And that has at least something to do with campaign money. As in too much of it. The Supreme Court tells us we can’t put limits on campaign spending because it’s a free speech issue. I tend to think of advertising as commerce, not speech, but apart from that, while I can understand the logic to the argument against limiting spending, there’s also an argument that money backed by big money is crowding out other speech. That can’t be healthy, as the marketplace of ideas can’t work if big money can monopolize that market.

It’s a real problem, and even many of the people who argue against any spending limits acknowledge it, but are hard pressed to find solutions. There are ideas out there, and I’ve had a few of my own.

One of them that makes sense to me in terms of direct campaign contributions, I’m not sure why we can’t limit that to individual citizens. No other organizations—corporations, lobbyists, unions, PACs—none, can contribute directly to any candidate’s campaign fund. Only individual citizens. And they have to be reported, as they are now. Limits? I don’t know…maybe, maybe not.

Another related idea is to allow individual citizens to only contribute to campaigns for offices that affect them. That is, I could only contribute to my state and local races, my own state’s senate races, and the presidential elections. I could not send money to other races. This seems like common sense to me, I could well be missing something.

Now, those organizations that still want to support candidates or issues—they still can buy ads arguing their case, but full disclosure of what organizations are funding those adds has to be part of them. If it’s an amalgamation of funders—a trade group spending the money of multiple donors, every one of those orgs has to be named. If we can ask drug companies to list dozens of possible side effects during every Viagra commercial, I think it’s fair to ask for full disclosure.

While we’re at it, corporations incorporate for good reason—they get many of the rights of an individual. So, if a corporation moves its headquarters to another country, well, they can’t contribute anything.

Smarter people than I have more ideas that are smarter than mine. Just not sure how to get them implemented. Of course, money will always find a way, but I don’t think that’s an excuse for how perverted things have become, or for not trying to manage the influence of campaign money.

Meantime, can’t wait to vote tomorrow morning, even if I’ll have to hold my nose for some of the choices.

One woman at the Teaching Children About Blindness session I gave last Friday was a teacher trainer at Head Start in Tampa. That very morning she’d been told that a three-year-old who’d just enrolled is blind. “I have no idea what to tell the teachers to do with him,” she said. “I thought coming to hear you might be a good place to start.”

Another audience member taught sign language at a nursery school that regularly has teenagers who are blind come in as volunteers. She’d come to find out if there was some way to incorporate Braille in her preschool. Another audience member had taught at a school for the blind years ago. “I came just to hear what you have to say,” she said.

And so, here’s what I had to say: screw my presentation. We need to help this Head Start woman!

I’m happy. Baby Kennedy’s happy. Callie, not so much.

Okay, not really. What I actually said was, “How about we move our chairs and sit in a circle?” Everyone there had the handout I’d put together with lists of resources and ideas to teach children about blindness that they could read on their own when they got home, so instead of talking about that we all shared ideas and resources about how to include a child who is blind into a preschool classroom.

At the end of the hour the Head Start teacher trainer walked out armed with the Braille copy of Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound that I’d brought along, and a list of names and email addresses others in the circle had come up with for her to contact for help. Most importantly, she left with reassurances from people in the room who had dealt with blindness before. “I bet you’ll be surprised at what fun this boy will be at Head Start,” the teacher who had taught at a school for the blind told her as she left. “You’ll all end up learning a lot.”

My reward for a successful session? I got to spend the rest of the weekend wining and dining and swimming and playing and… holding babies!

I have a niece and nephew in Florida, and both had daughters born this past year. My sisters Cheryl and Bev flew down with Whitney and me, and our brother-in-law Rick greeted us in their Orlando home with a very special dinner: Sloppy Joe’s made from Flo’s famous recipe. He even made red Jello with bananas, Flo’s signature dessert! His wife (and our sister) Marilee drove us miles and miles to visit their grandbabies

That’s Whitney leaping into the water to chase the ball I just threw.

Whitney was a trooper for the entire trip, whether squeezing under the seat in front of us on the airplane or curling at my feet in the front passenger seat of Marilee’s car. She didn’t mind sharing my attention with baby Callie and baby Kennedy, either. Her reward? Chasing tennis balls in my niece’s backyard pool.