A Kassel Mission Obsession: The Night Before the Mission

On base that night, some of the boys cleaned up and took the liberty truck into Norwich to see a double feature. Many senior officers went, including Major Don McCoy, who would lead the next day’s mission, had just returned from nearly two months in sick bay from an August 2 on-base injury. In the theater, McCoy confided to the group officer next to him that he was finally cleared to fly the next day. Bombardier Lt. John Woodley from the Hansen Crew was also there.

Neither McCoy nor Woodley would see another movie in Norwich.

Meanwhile, 2nd Lt. Nelson Dimick from Pearson’s crew was planning his 20th birthday party for the next day. He had already bought two fifths of “very good black market scotch” at the officers club. The going price was about 18 a bottle. Dimick had asked an enlisted English girl to be his date.

But fate had other plans for Lt. Dimick.

For Bill Dewey, it was just a regular night.

"…I don’t even remember what I did the night before the Kassel Mission. It would be the last night most of the group would ever be in Tibenham ever again. Early September, it was just a normal night. All those nights kind of run together. I probably just sacked out. I’d sit up in bed and read railroad books and “Trains” Magazine."

"I was still more of a railroad buff than airplanes. Of course, Lindbergh went across in 1927, and everyone was interested in airplanes and movies about World War I. My folks took me to see the silent movie, “Wings,” all about World War I and all the dog fights they had with Germans, the Red Baron and all that. Those guys didn’t live very long…."

Miles away, ground crews worked through the night on B-24 engines under shuttered lights, tweaking them till they hummed, the roar rising and falling, as they cared for the planes that would carry the men sleeping or trying to sleep in their huts. They replaced parts, riveting the broken bodies together again, their scars hopefully making them stronger. For a while, as the flight crews turned in, that was the only noise, far enough away that it might put them asleep, reassuring them that work was being done and done well.

With the ending of Operation Market Garden, Arnold and Spaatz were released to hit strategic bombing targets nonstop. And so, beginning September 27, Carl Spaatz could once again call the shots and begin hitting strategic targets meant to take out enemy oil and industry.

At 2300 hours, 11 p.m. Double British Daylight Time on September 26, the teletype at Tibenham headquarters began clacking, signaling operations officers that they would be working through the night, assigning men and planes. The mission was on.

For 238 men of the 445th now sleeping in their cots, it would be their last night on base. For 117 of those, it would be their last night ever.

Tahelenbak photo courtesy Kassel Mission Historical Society

A bittersweet farewell visit

This afternoon, after a morning of much needed rest while John and the group toured Norwich, I took a taxi to the village of Salhouse to see the dearest people, friend David Hastings and his wife, Jean.

David was just a 12-year-old kid when he was adopted by a crew of the American 467th Bomb Group. He would ride his bike seven miles to the base to watch his crew come in. Never missed a mission. Later, he served in the RAF then on the board of governors for the Second Air Division Memorial Association and was honored by the Queen for his service.

Such an appreciative person, and Jean is so lovely. I last saw them in 2007 and may not see them again. Both are 92 and in poor health, but the day brightened for all of us when he opened the door.

David has always been very interested in the Kassel Mission and was for many years a member of KMHS. His interests span different areas of the war, however, and I ponder the meaning all of this has had on his life. In some ways, his experience in the war certainly defined him as a man. He became a pilot only after he left military service, befriending 445th BG copilot David Patterson, fellow governor of the 2AD Memorial Association. Together, they toured the U.S. in a Cessna in 7 days, even saw a UFO over the Mojave Desert. He made friends everywhere he went, at reunions in the States as well as RAF reunions in the UK. I am honored to call him and wonderful Jean “friend.” God has blessed us all.

Such a happy visit with this lovely man

Commendation from the Queen

On the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral

When Dad said that he happened to be in London on leave the day the Germans surrendered, I could only imagine the chaos. The city erupted in joy. People, young and old, dancing in the streets. Local girls kissing soldiers they’d never seen before and would never see again. Long kisses. Deep kisses.

For Londoners who had endured the barrage of bombings since the blitz, who had lived through terror raids, had lost loved ones in the war, as had the Americans who had arrived at the final hour to help, the relief from not having to wait for the last shoe to drop, from not having to wait for the ill-fated letter to arrive, for not having to wait to see if any men of childbearing years would be left, must have been overwhelming. For bomber boys like my father, pilot Bill Dewey, who had lived through hell in the heavens and had arrived on this day closer to or farther from a sense of God, or belief that there was sense in the world at all, the relief had to be beyond what they could handle. It meant returning home, unless they were reassigned to the Pacific Theater—there was that, after all, for Japan had yet to reach the same turning point as Germany, and Italy before that. It meant returning home--to what? To whom?

Bombardier George Collar in Stalag Luft I must have heard the news by this time. He just wanted to go home to Jackson, Michigan and visit Robert’s Bar to see the regulars. It was comforting, thinking of things just being usual. Yet when he would return, he wouldn’t recognize a soul. They were all gone, scattered to the winds, as he had been during the Kassel Mission battle.

For Bill Dewey, it meant putting the nightmare behind him, returning to normality, such as it would be.

The next day, VE Day, as he stood on the steps of St. Paul’s and watched the victory parade go by, did he revel in the moment? Did he break down his moral standards and have a toast that day? Did he read his lesson sermon that morning giving thanks to God? Did he write his parents from London about his joy, their joy as a family? Did he slap others on the back, run into guys from the base also on leave, because, after all, there had been no missions since the ones he himself briefed weeks ago as group assistant operations officer. Only a skeleton crew was needed on base anyway. Everyone had known it was the end.

Yet this was it now. Officially the end. It was over, once and for all, at least for the Londoners. The Air Force still had to finish off the Japs. But they would.

At least, they hoped so. Things were more harsh in Japan. It was a different ball of wax over there. For one thing, the planes were different. Liberator pilots finished with their first furlough were being trained to fly B-29s. That was just one thing that was different.

Yet here he was, on the steps watching this parade march--from Buckingham Palace, was it?-- toward him as he stood on the steps of St. Paul’s, drum corps thrumming, bag pipes whining, soldiers marching, shouting, yelling, none of them looking that sharp, yet so happy. Here was a car full of generals surrounded by soldiers running up, popping corks, champagne flowing, girls running into the street, kids weaving through the crowds waving small British and American flags on sticks. The streets were packed, and Bill watched it all from slightly above.

What must it have been like? I needed to be there, knew it long ago, and today, September 20, 2024, I got the chance, thanks to friend Britishers who took a double decker tour bus with me to a stop near St. Paul’s. Then I walked ahead, my phone camera recording as I approached the cathedral, imagining the music, the shouts, the crowd cheering, hardly making my way to the steps, out of the crowd.

Not today, of course. Yes, there were people there, pedestrians. Everywhere in London I’d seen pedestrians, mainly, my hosts told me, because the government now discourages auto transport into the city. High parking rates and bad traffic backups make it more feasible to park the car away from downtown and take the “Tube” in. So that’s what we did.

But back then, perhaps he had stayed at a hotel or the Red Cross Club, where officers often stayed. Perhaps he had heard that a parade was scheduled for this hour, perhaps not. But he and his friend, whoever his companion was—always another Air Force officer—had found their way out of the crush onto the steps to be able to witness this event. That much I knew.

VE Day in London on the steps of St. Pauls’ Cathedral, where so many had pled with God to save their lives, or their son’s or fiance’s or husband’s or uncle’s or father’s lives. This is where they came to pray and now, this is where they witnessed victory.

My throat began to ache. My eyes began to fill. Emotion hit hard, as it must have hit him. I could only imagine how this must have felt back then, if it was hitting me like this now. I imagine his eyes welled, too. He would go home now, see his folks again. Twenty-two. He was only twenty-two. Emotion moved him. Love hit him. He felt deeply the things that mattered to him. He was that kind of guy, that kind of man, to his dying day 17 years ago

Here’s to you, Dad, and to all those like you who celebrated that day, who had fought for ideals, for truth, justice and honor. Whether the Cause was real or not, they thought it was, and that, for them and for me, made it real, after all.

Here’s to all of you. What you must have gone through, I cannot fathom. But I thank you, here and now on this last day of Summer 2024.

COUNTDOWN TO KASSEL: 25 February, 1944 Jimmy Stewart Faces Fear

COUNTDOWN TO KASSEL: Jimmy Stewart Faces Fear

Photo from the book, “Jimmy Stewart Bomber Pilot,” by Starr Smith

Stewart on the Tower, waiting for the ships to return

USAAF Station 169, Tibenham, England Station

Middle of the night, February 25, 1944

After the brutal Gotha mission the day before, Jimmy Stewart’s beloved 445th was in trouble. It had lost 13 of its 25 planes in what would be the group’s worst massacre of the war, except for the Kassel Mission seven months hence.

Worse, the 445th was on alert for a mission for the next day which would be their longest flight into Germany yet.

The group needed someone inspired to get them in the air. Everyone knew Stewart was the only man to do it. But Stewart himself was still reeling from the losses of the 24th. Although he accepted that he would lead the next day’s raid, he became truly afraid that he might not survive it. If commanding officers like the 702nd’s CO and the 700th’s Operations Officer could go down like they did yesterday, anyone could.

Breaking into a cold sweat, Stewart knew that if he didn’t get hold of this fear, it would grow inside him and infect his crew members. “Fear is an insidious and deadly thing,” he said in a later interview about that night. “It can warp judgment, freeze reflexes, breed mistakes. And worse, it’s contagious.”[i] He got up, and decided to face his own fear head-on, then realized that his biggest fear was that he’d make a mistake.

Walking to the window of his room, he pulled the blackout curtains and stared into the blackest night he would ever know as a flight commander. The base was anything but quiet. Activity gave away the secret: a mission was on.

Mentally, Stewart went over every single detail that could go wrong and what he would do if it did.[ii] Above all, he wanted to be sure he was prepared for any emergency that might come up so that he would not make a mistake.[iii] What happened the next day proved this to be more than a mere exercise.

Long before dawn, the men were up. Few spoke as they trudged through the mud to the mess hall, locker room and briefing.

Stewart no doubt led the briefing. The group only had seventeen air-worthy aircraft left. They would zigzag all over Germany. One gunner, Robbie Robinson, wrote later in his book, “A Reason to Live,” (by John Harold Robinson) that he thought, “Boy, this is going to be a long day.” There would be little gas for deviation from their planned route. The flight would be 9 ½ hours; they had ten hours of fuel. It would also be their first flight with chaf, which looked like Christmas tree icicles – 10” long skinny tinsel-like bands of aluminum, wrapped in little bundles, which was supposed to keep flak from hitting their planes. The idea was that it would deflect the Germans’ radar for their flak guns. Instructions were to throw it out the windows when the flak started.[iv]

Robinson and the rest of the Wright crew jumped on a truck. Before it pulled away, Stewart climbed in to sit next to him. “Sergeant, we are going to have a mighty fine flight today,” he said to Robinson.

“Yes, sir.”

When the truck started up, it headed away from the planes. Stewart yelled, “Where the hell are you going, driver? Hey, driver!”

The truck stopped. Wright’s navigator got out and came around to explain.  “Major, I told him to stop by Operations to get my charts.”

“To hell with the charts,” said Stewart. “This damned war will be over before we ever get out to the planes.” Then Stewart got out and went up to ride in the front seat, trading seats with the navigator, who got into the truck next to Robinson, saying that he didn’t need his charts anyway; he knew how to get there. Somebody else remarked on how irritable Stewart was.

Wright’s plane took off right after Stewart. Stewart led the first element (three planes), and Wright led the second 703rd Squadron element of planes behind him.

The first flak at the coast looked “like pinwheels coming up at you.” But it wasn’t flak. They were newly developed rockets fired from the ground, the first that airmen like Stewart and Robinson had ever seen.

In briefing, they had been told to get the bomb bay doors opened and closed to eliminate drag and use more fuel. The bomb bays opened.

“Jimmy Stewart had led us exactly to the spot…,” Robinson wrote later.  Below, lines and lines of airplanes lay on the airfield, maybe 200 in all. It was a bull’s eye. Every bomb hit the target. Robinson thought, “That’s one bunch of enemy fighters that will never get in the air again.”[v]

They closed up their bomb bays, and Wright flew just under Stewart’s tail, about 20 feet back. The flak was still intense. Something was wrong. :As the gunners threw out the chaf, the flak became more accurate.

Suddenly, flak hit Stewart’s plane right behind the nose wheel, directly below the flight deck. Wright moved their plane forward, under Stewart’s, so they cold see. “Boy!” wrote Robinson later. “What a hole there was in the bottom of Stewart’s ship.” Out from the bottom of the ship dropped a briefcase and what looked to be a parachute pack. The chute hit the tip of Wright’s prop, then went under them.

Wright tried to contact Stewart on the radio, but Stewart wasn’t responding because of radio silence. His plane stayed in formation; it didn’t slow down. Now came the Me109s, and two 24s, burning, hit the ground. Nobody got out. A B-17 went down.

Somehow, they got beyond Germany. On their approach to the airstrip at Tibenham, several planes shot flares, indicating wounded. Those planes landed first, then Stewart’s ship landed in front of Wright. Near the end of the runway, Stewart’s plane began to smoke. Then, everyone watched as it broke into two pieces at the nose wheel. Wright, down too low to pull back up, touched down and both he and his copilot rode their brakes down the runway and turned ship to the right trying to miss Stewart’s. Just off the runway on the ramp, Wright stopped short of Stewart but unable to get by him.

Robbie jumped out waist of the waist and ran over to Stewart’s ship. With its tail sticking up in the air and nose sticking up in the air, the center down on the ground, it had “cracked open like an egg,” leaving long scars on the runway where the plane had dragged. Stewart stood near his plane’s left wingtip. As Robbie walked up to him, Stewart said, “Sergeant, somebody sure could get hurt in one of those damned things.”

“Major,” Robbie said, “we thought for a while that you had it bad.”

Stewart rubbed his chin. “I was thinking that, when I looked around and saw that big hole in the flight deck behind my seat.” He walked up to the nose.

Wright, unable to get their ship past Stewart’s on the ramp, had to leave it there. Others landed on the other, shorter runway. Low on fuel from the long mission, they couldn’t circle and wait ay longer. Robinson went back to his ship. Flak holes were everywhere.

At debriefing, Robinson told the debriefing officer that the chaf attracted flak. They had even thrown out a full box and watched it get hit.

The debriefing officer replied, “It deflects radar, sergeant.”

“By God,” declared Robbinson, “you weren’t up there today. I saw what it did.”[vi]

[i] Air Classics Magazine, May 1993 in Smith, p. 131.

[ii] Smith, p. 130

[iii] Guideposts magazine in Smith, p. 131

[iv] Robinson, pp 299-300

[v] Robinson p. 303

[vi] Robinson, pp 303-305

Bringing the outdoors into the studio

I’m not a plein aire painter. I’m just not. Although painting outside and being out in the open looks romantic, the reality for me is moments of shear mixed with being cold or hot and dealing with wind, bugs, changing light, lugging gear, limited time, and the need for bathroom breaks. I take my hat off to those who do, and there are lots of them, but it’s just not for me.

I do, however, LOVE to take pictures out in the fresh air, bring them inside, and paint them at my leisure.

I got my first camera when I was 9, a Kodak Brownie Pendaflex with a flash and a viewfinder from the top. Since the mid-80s, when I became more serious about photography, I used a fancy camera. Then I realized my phone was just as good or better, for my purposes at least. (The only thing I miss is an eyepiece to limit the sunlight on the image screen. For that, I might get a new camera.)

You already know how easy the phone camera is. You see something along the road, whip out your phone click away. I take lots of pictures of a scene from various viewpoints, trying different compositions. Sometimes, the picture in the viewer is dar sky is Then, back in my studio, I play with the images and on the easel, I either use one image or a combination of images.

Working from photographs in the studio makes it easier to accept commissions, too. Clients send me photographs that might make good paintings. I offer suggestions and usually ask for several of the subject. We agree on an approach, and I go to work. Usually, after several weeks I contact my client to see if, as I’m nearing the end of the project, alterations need to be made. Does it look like your daughter, pet, father, house? If not, we make alterations until it does.

I work on an approval basis, with half down at the beginning of the project. The rest is due when my client approves the painting, a happy moment for all of us.

If you’re interested in booking a commission or are lucky enough to be in Michigan's beautiful Leelanau County and would like to view my home gallery, email me - linda@lindaalicedewey.com. 

Crystal River Sunset in January, original 11 x 14 commission, now available as a print in my gallery

Original pic by Laurie Heilman first posted on Facebook

Quinn, client photo

Quinn, 14 x 11 commissioned pastel painting

The solutions we find in community

I love morning glories, always have since I was a kid. I especially love the blue ones, when the sunlight shines through them and makes them glow. Last year, my morning glories were especially wonderful, growing up along my kitchen door climbing up the trellis and onto the wires creeping up onto my roof.

But those same morning glories can be tough to pull down when they get tangled up in wires, and I ran into a problem, when I managed to pull a few wires down along with the morning glories. One particular telephone wire came down from underneath the siding and hung in a loopy U in front of my kitchen window since the spring. Not a big problem, but it was time to take care of it.

Yesterday, an extraordinary event occurred right here in my Glen Arbor backyard. Two members of this community, one whom I had never met, and another whom I met only once although he is iconic in this area, showed up at my back door to offer a helping hand.

Glen Arbor is full of extraordinary people, and here were two of them. One is named Darla. I don't even know her last name—yet. The other is none other than World War II veteran engineer Stan Brubaker, father of the famed and infamous Glen Arbor 4th of July parade.

Stan lives just a mile from me. Even so, the only other time I met him was at our most recent Memorial Day weekend ceremony at the historic Glen Arbor Cemetery. Yet, the Brubaker name was well known. Not only had I heard of him, but friends of mine are friends of his daughter. Stan told me they’ve been coming up here since the early 1950s, just like I have. (I was 4 years old at the time, he, a little older.)  

Back to my little downed wire problem. I don’t have an extension ladder and wouldn’t climb one if I did; my balance is less than optimal. I get off balance just turning around quickly. Put me on a little three-step ladder and I have to hold on to something or I’ll topple. So, even though this was just a little bit above the roof line, I knew I wasn't the one to do this.

I have been able to find some really good handy-man help over the years, and I’ve got a few good people right now, but they lack the ladder. My family is currently visiting, but we didn’t know where to get one either.

So, who you gonna call when you need help in Glen Arbor or in Leelanau County? Our local Facebook groups, of course.

Overheard in Leelanau County is one of the most powerful Facebook groups I know. Last time I checked it had it over 28,000 members. I post regularly with my events and artwork. People there are responsive and supportive; it's so much fun to engage with that community. When I don’t know where to turn, it’s my go-to. That's where I found the wonderful guy who digs up bushes for me when they need to be moved. Other wonderful folks have come over to give me a hand when I need it. And a lot of clients for  paintings, prints, cards, and Redbubble products have found me there. It’s just an unbelievable community.

Even so, I thought, why not start even more locally? I started the Glen Arbor Facebook group in 2017 out of just this kind of a need I perceived in our area. Sometimes it’s hard to find what you need, even when it’s just around the corner or, as it turned out in this case, at your own back door. Not with resources like this.

I posted my call for help. Within minutes, “Darla” answered. We made a plan: she would borrow a ladder and stop by in two days.

At 4:30 on the dot yesterday afternoon, a cute little white pickup pulled up in my drive. Not only did Darla get out from the driver’s side, but there was the ladder owner himself, Stan Brubaker, getting out on the passenger side and walking into my backyard with his toolbox.

Before I knew it, Darla was up on the ladder tucking things back where they belong like a pro. That girl had no problem with balance; that was easy to see. Within minutes she was finished.

I had to give her something. She had already told me beforehand that she wouldn’t take any pay, so I lamely offered a few 8-packs of my note cards.

She surprised me when she replied, “How about one of your books?” Evidently, one of her friends had read one of the two about my experiences with a couple of ghosts and their life and afterlife stories.

While she was putting away the ladder, I retrieved two books from the trunk of my car. I always have books in the trunk of my car, even after 15 years. I got one Aaron’s Crossing for Darla and one for Stan. I didn’t know if he would want to read it, but at least it was something. I autographed and inscribed them with a little note of thanks.

When I gave them the books, I sensed that Darla was somewhat familiar with the story. I explained to Stan that the book started at the Glen Arbor Township Cemetery, where we met in May. I also explained that the genre was called “Creative Nonfiction” for a reason—the parts where I’m in it did happen; the rest may have, and we laughed. Then I told him how I tried to corroborate who I “picked up” at the cemetery back before the book was published. I went to the town hall and talked with Bonnie Quick, the clerk at the time, who told me that the National Park requested all the cemetery records when they took over the cemetery property, and Glen Arbor sent them over.

When I went over to the national park Visitors Center, they said they never received them. In my work with the park since then, straightening out the cemetery ownership, they continue to maintain that they do not have the records. Meanwhile, a dedicated group of local historians is working episodically in the basement of the town hall to see what they can find.

Stan and Darla seemed pleased with their gifts. “I’ll wave next time I see ya,” Stan said as he walked back to the little truck. Then they were gone. That wire is back where it belongs as this year’s morning glories track back up to find it again.

What an amazing place this is. Better yet, what amazing people live here.  

To learn more about me and my work—my art and my writing—go to www.lindaalicedewey.com

Glen Lake 8th Graders get into death records

You would think looking at death certificates would be a dark subject, but Glen Lake's 8th graders today eally got into it. We learned about some good long lives and far too many short ones.

The first man buried at the Glen Arbor Cemetery in 1879 perished in the shipwreck of a small vessel.

The last person was buried there in 1927. That was John Trumbull, of Trumbull Road fame. He died in that big beautiful farmhouse at the top of the hill as you leave the Foothills Motel behind on 675. The students were shocked that he died at home.

They were shocked that babies were not born in hospitals.

We found a 7 year old boy who drowned. The certificate noted his occupation as "scholar." They didn't know what a scholar was. now they know that they are all scholars, too. The boy's grave, like most of these which had wooden markers or crosses, is unmarked now; we don't know where it is because there are no cemetery records.

We found immigrants from Sweden, Norway and Denmark. One student found a woman whose maiden name was the same as his mother's family. Are they related?

There was a murder when a man caught his wife coming out of the woods with his male cousin; a suicide, and four Civil War veterans, one of whom lived 40 years longer and died felling trees for DH Day.

There were far too many stillborns and one old man who had had 11 children; only five were living when he died.

The tragedy here is that these graves for the most part are unmarked, and the records have been lost or misplaced. Through the efforts of local historian Andrew White, we have the beginning of a paper trail, but much research must be done before we can say we know who is buried at the Glen Arbor Cemetery. Thirteen tombstones, but at least 38 graves, and counting.

I presented a slideshow about the cemetery to the kids last Monday. I think I'll put some of this information together for a presentation I can make to women's clubs and rotary clubs and loval senior groups. What do you think?

On the Glen Arbor Cemetery project: things take a turn

I have to write about this.

The former Glen Arbor Township Cemetery, off Forest Haven Road, November 9, 2019

Nessen Mill Crew 452 on the Crystal River, Glen Arbor, courtesy Andrew White. Many of the poorer workers who came to Glen Arbor during the lumbering days could not afford headstones. Many more graves exist at the 1 3/4 acre Glen Arbor Cemetery than the 13 gravestones there currently represent.

We did have a nice plan for the 8th graders to visit the cemetery last week. I hoped for them to see the situation as it is today, with all the downed trees everywhere, and the place abandoned; but unfortunately, Glen Arbor received 43 inches of snow in 24 hours two days before the field trip.

Yes, I know that figure never made it into the papers. I know everyone was talking about Empire and its 30 inches. But ask about the measurements taken on a certain deck. Ask about measuring 24 inches the night before, then shoveling it off only to find another 19 in the morning. Ridiculous. Who ever heard of that in Michigan? Maybe in Buffalo. Maybe. But in Michigan?

Halfway through the 11-11 storm

So the trip was postponed until this week, but still too much snow, and now, in order to get to the cemetery, we would have to walk IN the road, not on the shoulder, so no way. Safety issue.

That was Wednesday. That afternoon, the call came. The loggers, those blessed lumberjacks from Parshall Tree Care Experts are going to be able to do some good this weekend. Tomorrow, actually. Saturday.

They might not be able to get everything they would like to get, but they can do a good day's worth of work. Ten of them--eight men, two women. Two would act as sawyers; the rest would move the logs, stack them, and clear a new path in--five feet, plus two feet of clearance on either side, with six feet up above.

Look out, Bob Sutherland, you're going to have to duck your head when you visit the cemetery behind your mother's house now. But at least you'll get in easily. You'll just walk right in.

After the phone call, driving home from teaching my art students up in Lake Leelanau, my lovely Wednesday ladies, it occurred to me that I might do something to thank these workers who are coming from their business HQ in Interlochen. But what? Bake cookies? Didn't seem like enough. Bring hot chocolate? How would I do that? In a thermos? Were they going to want to stop and drink my hot chocolate and eat my cookies? No, they wanted to work. What could I do?

Tracy delivers a check for her mother, Barbara Siepker.

And then I realized this wasn't my project. This is the town's project. Maybe there were places in town that might speak for the rest of us. I thought of businesses. They always get hit up, but there I was walking in again. And guess what happened.

Arts is donating their lunches. Cherry Republic is putting together a box full of snacks and trail mix for them. Anderson's IGA, Brad Anderson, bless his heart, is going to put something together for me to pick up tomorrow. That's still a mystery, but I bet it will be good. Maybe Anderson's cider?

And now, individual donations are coming in that will cover drinks and tips for lunch, three of them so far. How unbelievable is this?

Oh, and, Duh. Each worker will receive a signed copy of "Aaron's Crossing" to take home. I just realized today that none of this would have happened without him, my Aaron. Blessed, beloved Aaron. Thank you, sir.

Lunch on the house for the loggers tomorrow, courtesy Arts Tavern in Glen Arbor! Thanks, Bonnie and Tim! Nice delivery, Vicki!