Archive for the ‘nostalgia’ Category

Lately I have struggled and searched to join the masses in feeling the joy of the holidays. The spirit was sadly eluding me and I longed for inspiration to find me so that I might write for all of you in honor the celebration just days away.

Yesterday the spirit of the season came to me through a quiet knock on my front storm door. It was above freezing outside, just barely. A meager snow that had fallen the day before had begun to melt some and was slush on the street out front. But in the shadow of my house, the sidewalk there was still in ice and snow.

I opened my door actually expecting to see a client who was on the way to pick up a computer I had fixed for her. Instead, I was greeted by a young boy, who had recently become a neighbor. He stood silent there on my porch. He said nothing, but had a broad smile on his face and snow shovel in his hand, blade to the top. The handle had been resting on my porch, but he raised it up a bit and smiled even broader. I asked him if “he thought I should use it to clean my walk?”, but he just said no. I told him “if he did that for me, I would give him a bit of money”…He just smiled again and turned to walked down the porch steps, still having said but a word or two. And still this great young kid wore that wonderful smile that can win over the day, which was by coincidence the winter solstice.

As I heard the blade start to scrape the concrete and ice, my mind wandered back to another frozen sidewalk…Back to the north a few hundred miles and forty five long years ago. Another boy had shovel in hands, and chipped away at a hard frozen layer of ice and snow, clearing a span of sidewalk without a fee in mind.

The day before, my Momma had been walking on that walk and slipped to fall and broke several of the small bones that joined arm to hand. I felt a duty and need to go make the world a safer place for her to walk, a less hazardous place to weather the British Columbia winter.

So with shovel in hand and winter clothes over all, I set out to honor my due as a boy with a cast-wearing mom. And as I recall, it was likely the first time dealing with such a chore, and I was a scrub of a boy, winded and sweaty as I made safe passage for all that ventured there…perhaps too little too late, but my life as a protector was about to begin.

I was just seven or eight years old then…rather small and in the middle of seven kids born to my folks. It wasn’t a time of prosperity. And having to share the needs and desires of life with so many siblings often left a kid with more of a tendency to spend hours browsing through the ‘Simpsons-Sears” (the Canadian version of America’s Sears and Roebucks) winter “wish book”. And I also recall being more than envious of some of the kids of more affluent families thereabouts who often kindly shared their bounty of gifts with me at play time.

I was old enough to believe otherwise, but I still harbored close the belief in Santa, in his ability to somehow know of my wants and wishes…And perhaps it was that same year that I was again to have my belief validated. Made true in the discovery of a new red bicycle in the living room there on Christmas dawn. I had always ridden well-worn and used bikes until then. It might not have been a Schwinn with a drag slick in back and a springer front fork with a small wheel up front, and banana seat and high bars and a five speed shifter, and all that (I still want one of those)…But it was mine. It was brand new, and Santa had heard me and delivered it to the side of the tree! Whew! I get breathless just remembering.

And not only did I believe in old St Nick. I was also being given insight to the true meaning of Christmas, sent to Catechism on Wednesday evenings, attended services on Sundays there at the Catholic Church in Abbotsford…I even had my first communion during that time in the Western most Province. I was far from a saint and had more than my share of trouble inside…and I needed all the help given my parents and siblings. But I was in truth being given the tools I would need later in life.

I will share that I was a troubled soul even then. I was in fact a bit of a brat. I admit that I often felt perhaps I was less that loveable, at times undeserving of favor by Santa, of blessings by God. I can also share that I was never slighted by Santa, even when I was caught peeking at gifts under the tree and otherwise spoiled Christmas for myself. But Santa came through, and my family and God too still loved me.

And as far as God loving me, I found strong evidence of that when I was riding my shiny red bike along a busy thoroughfare, and somehow got in the way of a very large Cadillac. I was to be sent through the air quite a ways, and deposited on my little melon. But I never lost consciousness, nor did I break a bone. I was treated to a headache and a visit to the hospital directly across the street from the accident scene. And my very bent shiny red bicycle was in turn repaired by my father and put back in service in short order.

While reflecting on the events from my past as that smiling boy scraped snow and ice from my walk, I dipped into the cup in my bathroom where I keep all my change. I pulled ten quarters out of it and joined that boy on the sidewalk. I handed them to him, and told him there were ten of them in his gloved hand. I quizzed him in math by asking him how much they added up to. For a minute we reasoned and multiplied, added and figured the issue successfully. He is a pretty bright boy.

I returned to my house and waited to see if he would end his efforts now that he had been paid. I was rewarded by the resumption of the sounds of scraping and chipping by the shovel wielding boy. And I rewarded the honorable young man by returning to the sidewalk with a couple cookies. I inquired then of his age, and through a smile he replied that he was eleven. I looked at this great kid there in his sweat pants and baggy sweat coat, and mittens, with a mussed up healthy head of hair. I asked what his name was. He told me, “I’m Richard, at school the kids call me Richie, but you can call me Richard or Richie, whichever you want.”

I said, “thank you Richie…you’re a good kid”. He smiled and I went back inside. I felt a sigh while knowing I had found there on my porch in a smiling and earnest boy named Richard or Richie, the very spirit of Christmas that had been eluding me, escaping me. In a ten minute span, I was again gifted through the present and the past my belief in Santa, in family, in Christmas, in the reasons for the season, Jesus and God…and in fact; in ME.

There have been many reminders come flooding to me since those divine minutes of yesterday afternoon, and many good souls have reached out to me to reinforce the spirit of things…

But most of all, I found the young boy in me again through the boy on my porch. And I know that this year Christmas found me standing there on my porch through a boy named Richie with a shovel, a smile, an already admirable work ethic…and a spirit to remind me of what I’ve been missing so far since Thanksgiving had faded in my mind.

Thanks to Richie, to Santa, my parents, and to a generous God, I can wish you all a very Merry Christmas. I remind you to hug your folks, to embrace your family, to thank God for sending us his only Son…and to open your minds, hearts, arms, and doors…’cause you never know what you might find…

Thanks Momma and Dad. Love, Matthew Lyle…

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Come gather here, on this frosty morn. Invite lost souls, from family torn. Assemble where kettles boil, ovens roast, and fires warm. No matter, if it be a meager meal or something more, come gather around and seek a hand to touch, to warm and hold. Then offer thanks and prayers.

Get together with fond memories, of one who toiled in a kitchen over yester-years. A labor of love began in the dawn of the day, not just to cook, but to beckon, to invite, to hearken back where echoes remain…incited by scent, by laughter, sighs, and a lingering presence from a celestial place. And again I’ll spend the day with a collective blend of all such days once spent, and sigh a sigh of such fondness and sentiment that love for departed brings her to home again…and I’ll look to the dusting of flour for a simple fingerprint left, a whiff of cologne that drifts from a place beyond…and I will smile a quiet smile at just the faint wistfulness of such a divine day…

Come gather here to give retreat for the prodigal, embrace to the chilled. To offer love from thin air where yearnings thrive, and relief eludes.

Come gather here, be it just two, or twenty. And give thanks for the offering of the day, be it in retrospect or hopeful of a cache of fresh inspiration to be dipped into in later days…It is otherwise just another Thursday, but is much more. And linger there on Friday…and even a day or two more.

My heart feels a resigned twinge of the constant barrage of offerings on a Friday called black…a Friday that reminds us to gather for the later giving…but it is time and patience and compassion in need of sharing, contrary to the things one might place in box or bag. It is love, it is promise. It is a pledge to be there in the dark months ahead that should be written in IOU’s for family and friend…It is a black Friday indeed that we look beyond our door to fill what the souls truly need.

I give thanks this year for simple things that find and fill me when I close my eyes at day’s end…and a knowing that all I see behind closed eyes is what accompanies me and gives relevance to not just the day of Thanksgiving, but all the days in between.

I will seek to find you, both to give refuge, and to seek it. Come gather here around tables large and small…and bask in the fires of home, whether from hearth or heart, to chase away the chills and lonesome days.

I call out to the hearts of those close and far, be it by miles or a lack of agreement on life’s issues…I will long for a glad closure of the miles or mind.

Come gather here and offer gratitude to your version of a higher power for the blessings past, present, or in wishful days to come. Gather here and let your spirits flourish and give freely of things which can be found only in smiles and laughter, and essential faith…Come gather here.

Happy Thanksgiving and good wishes in the season ahead.

Matthew Lyle.

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fall colorsFall and October are being ushered into the Northwest on blustery wings and benign clouds here in the desert. All at once the things of summer here gave way and were added to memories of all that was before…While I rolled up my watering hoses and put sprinkler heads away yesterday, I came to realize this is the advent of my fifty fourth autumn…I was born in the time of frost and dwindling daylight in the midst of October then…
I am still able to wander out into the day in short sleeves, but she is coming once again…the chilly mistress who decorates the trees in shades of orange, brown, red and gold. She is coming, accompanied by shorter days and lengthened nights…she is coming to remind me, that time is passing, and there will soon be a change of the calendar…and a fresh new year to embrace…she is coming once again. Autumn, in all her glory…Take care with you…Matthew

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 mll walk

When you assemble in the foyer, look into the eyes of everyone you see.

This will be the last time the lot of you will gather…

When you form those lines, know that others have taken the very same steps. Then they went forward and fed and raised you…

When you hear the music and voices of the crowd, embrace it as sweet harmony…like the same sweet sounds that lifted you over the last four years…After tonight, such a chorus will be but echoes and memories…

Entering the auditorium, you will leave behind the glorious freedom of chains that afforded you the room to grow…gave you chances to falter and still recover. Leaving the moment as a lesson learned without bridges being burned.

As you walk to your assigned chair for the night, look around and feel the pride exuded from friend and family there…embrace that kind breeze.

june 10 77

When you sit down and await the songs and salutes, awards and speeches, retirements of staff and handshakes from teachers…treasure every word, each expression and breath…There will never be a moment quite the same…You will have other such grand glimpses, but just one carries the fruit of at least thirteen years in such a cumulative harvest and grand acknowledgement.

This day is unique, and gives way to your leaving the souls gathered there as one.

Take pictures, take pride, take a moment here and there and hold it inside. For they will later at times sustain you, raise and remind you that much is possible, and that you are loved…Sign the yearbooks. Your words will be looked upon and reflected upon and perhaps even clung to over decades at special moments in time.

Inhale this day or evening as it may be…and know that when you walk away, some will move on, others are to be left behind. Some are to prosper and some to perish. But for at least this moment, appreciate the fact that you will never again be this young, nor as filled with possibility and potential…overflowing with dream and vigor.

And while you wait for your row of chairs to rise and journey to the handshake and presentation…bask in the applause, the love from theirs and yours there in the assembled oneness.

Be aware that whether they be your junior, or seniors, all in the crowd will be living through you vicariously, to dream of what will be, or what has been…regardless, for the magical glimpse in your time, you are giving them all a chance to once again, or somewhere down the road, gather and glow as individuals and as one.


Mark the year, as it will accompany you as no other. Take the time and also give it…place it all in a place of honor…whether it was marked on field or court, behind desk or podium…this is a time like no other…And mostly, give appreciation, share thanks, and immerse yourself in all that surrounds you…This is your time, your day, collectively and as one.

Here are some reflective thoughts I penned some thirty years after I made my walk, gave my speech and held my paper to the sky…For a moment it all returned to me, and again I addressed my class, wherever they may be…

“…I can still hear the echoes down the hallways of that long abandoned school, feel the warmth of your being as we brushed shoulders in a lunch line or rolled eyes at each other in the midst of a boring lecture in some ancient class on even more ancient history. Through the years as I have ventured down as many other halls, sat dutifully at other desks, broke bread with whoever was a part of my days, and toiled at the work put in front of me…And I have felt parts of our years still with me, imagined your faces in a crowd. Longed for the innocence and the unbridled joy that being there with you could bring. While I’ve always lived in the moment, I also find myself clinging to fragments and shreds of tired memories and trinkets of our times together.

Today, I’m here to replenish my supply, to fill my heart and raise my glass to you again before I resume the journey.

When I leave here this time, I will have looked each of you more deeply in the eye, held an embrace longer than in the past, and let your words, your expressions, your collective essence embed a little more meaningfully into my soul…”


Tonight I pray that God blesses and accompanies each of you, now and following your moment and this momentous occasion…

Take care with you as you go. And remember, when you walk, walk on air…

Yours, Matthew Lyle Landsman


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Weekend of October 27, 2012
I traveled back to my youth this weekend…to the Oregon coast, Oregon Highway 30 and US 101.
I drove past the first running track (at Neahkahnie High School in Rockaway Beach Oregon) I attempted to compete on. I’m not sure I even finished that lap. I also passed by a few others…I ran the (then) 440 yard dash. It taught me of life…as it was also called a “gut race”. That first track looks much smaller now than it did then. I have no doubt I could no longer run them at any speed, but if I choose to walk, I could circle them for hours…Life teaches you that…slow but steady. Take your time, be on the ready. The key is being present at the end…and being effective as you journey.

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My friend Ben Vegors and me at his chapel in Walla Walla.

I want to talk about my oldest friend, one of my mentors, and certainly one of my heroes.

Chaplain Ben Vegors. Ben is soon to be 90 years old. He still works full time in a vital position at the Walla Walla Veteran’s Affairs facility. He’s the head Chaplain still, after over 50 years. Ben is the oldest full time Chaplain in the United States. He has counseled veterans of every war since the Great War, the war that was fought to end all wars. After serving in WWII, Ben chose to eventually return to service and attend to helping war combatants for the remainder of his life.

I met Ben a few short years ago while I was deploying new computers at the Veterans Affairs facility where he serves. We often shared conversations and came to enjoy each other’s company. I had dropped off a couple of my writings for Ben to read, but being as busy as a Chaplain is during times of war, he initially hadn’t gotten around to reviewing them. As I write, I am trying to recall the piece I shared that he initially read. But all I can recall is that during a visit in his office, after he at last read an offering, he looked at me and shared (in essence) that shortly after he began reading, it occurred to him that I was indeed a true writer, that I wasn’t simply well intended, and that I had a gift and a unique perspective to share.

Ben dressed for business. A grand and handsome gentleman.

After reading a few of my pieces, and sharing many heartfelt discussions, Ben included me as one of his peers, for reasons of merit and shared intentions and abilities.

That single act of acceptance and validation from a career minister has changed my life and my self-perception. And it is compelling me to continue to honor my gift, to not only continue writing, but also to pursue publication…and to do my part to better the world with what he deemed my rare perspectives, and my gift of putting them into words.

I hope I can see that effort to fruition while he is among us to enjoy the achievement with me. Thank you Ben.

Ben’s old chapel at the Walla Walla VA facility

I haven’t worked at the V.A. facility for nearly three years, but I still call Ben a day two ahead of time, and travel the sixty miles to take advantage of an opening he pencils into his nearly full schedule. I love the drive, and the renewal of spirit that fills me before and during, and following a visit with Ben. I usually share a writing or perhaps a few. I always have probing questions about world affairs, about my own life or about some souls close to my heart. I am always gladly surprised by his crisp recollections, passionate opinions, and honest and frank answers. My friend Ben is a wealth of incomparable perspective and experiences.

I’m not here to write a book about my friend Ben. That would be redundant. I only want to share my perception of my friend, to embellish what I know (just a little), and pay homage to not only a great soul, but a true friend of mine. That is all I need share about me. I intended only to share and qualify the relationship I have with Ben.

There are many things from Ben’s substance that make him a special soul, but one the most endearing is his modesty. Even at this advanced age, and in spite of his lifelong dedication to service, to his marriage, his family, to God, and to veterans…Ben is a teacher by example and a healer of souls.

Despite these facts, he is of the opinion that folks are making way too much of a fuss over him. He is a humble man.

US Army Air Corp Sergeant Ben Vegors circa 1942-1945

Ben was born in 1922, on September 25th. In November of 1942 he joined the Army Air Corp and was assigned in Europe as a tail gunner in the Consolidated B24 Liberator heavy bombers. It was the most prolific of all WWII planes with about 18,400 being built.

When one enters a WWII B-24 Liberator bomber, there is no ladder, no stairs. The crew entered the plane through either the bomb bay doors, or lifted themselves through an escape hatch in the belly of the plane at the rear. An airman had to literally hold onto the edge of these openings while pulling himself up into it, much like a move by a male gymnast.

The tail of a B24…rear escape hatch and tail turret. Ben’s home for thirty long missions. God blessed him and his crews.

These planes were instruments of war, tended to by young men comprised of sinew, intense effort, adrenalin, and world saving dedication. Once inside the bomber, an Army airman found zero creature comforts, no amenities or interior paneling to cover all the weapons systems, avionics, mechanical and hydraulics needed to put a flying instrument of destruction into action.

B24 Liberator Heavy Bomber

I’m going to be frank for a few paragraphs. The lion’s share of WWII war planes were pure hell to occupy and operate. Cabins weren’t pressurized, so all breathing had to happen through oxygen masks. Whatever the temperature outside happened to be, so too was the temperature inside. There was no severe cold weather gear from Gore-Tex, no Northern Outfitters, and no Cabelas. There was wool underwear, leather and sheepskin. It was “we’re doing our best” military issue flying gear. There was “do what you can” for a place “to go”, such as in an ammo can. Twelve hours is a long flight.

The delivery of destruction on the ground, and deliverance of Ben to a life of service…

If someone was maimed by flak or gunfire, the resultant splatterings remained in and behind parts and pieces of the cramped and utilitarian bombers. All this primitive existence in a bomber resulted in a foul stench especially when the temperature outside went up.

Looking back into Ben’s “office” in the B24 Liberator.

The planes were noisy with wind, with engines and propellers, with gunfire and exploding flak, with hydraulics and mechanical operations, and with the dropping of bombs. They were made of metal, and were hard on the bodies of airmen and were strictly a means of delivering bombs. There was nothing glamorous about duty in these planes, and the occupants were generally scared and cold from the second they entered the craft till the moment the plane was safely stopped on the home runway. And a great deal of time, that last part didn’t get to happen. According to my research, over 18,000 B24’s were put into service, and more than 3600 were lost during nearly 227,000 sorties flown between 1942 and 1945. So in fact, fear was justified and it still haunts the men who flew in these planes in any capacity. And the anger towards our enemies still resides to some degree in the hearts of the men who were dragged from their lives at home in the States and anywhere our allies originated.

Ben’s place and function in the bomber was in the tail section, a lonely distance away from other crew members. The turret was tiny, even for a man of small stature like Ben. He described the discomfort of being limited so tightly for a half a day in the turret and not even being able to reach back to scratch the back of his own shoulder. Freezing cold, cramped, and scared most of the time. Angry at the reasons one was up there. It was a position in the plane and function of his preference. But his was also one of the most dangerous and vital positions on a WWII bomber.

A B24 tail turret in Tucson AZ air museum. I would not fit into the tail gunner’s position. Cramped quarters.

Beginning in late September of 1944, until late April of 1945, Ben hoisted his 22 or so year old frame up and into that inhospitable and perilous place some thirty times. Twenty eight bombing runs into Germany, and two more over Austria.

Bomb payload on its way to a target in Germany…destruction on the wing…

I mentioned to Ben that his was the place for a man with strong faith. A tail gunner had to possess a great confidence in the rest of the crew to the front of the plane. There was to be considered; faith in the navigator to keep a flight on path. Faith in the pilots to deal with the often longer than twelve hour flights. Faith in the bombardier when he took over the flight of the craft near the bombing target till the bombing run was complete, when the bomb load was on the way to the ground target, and a now much lighter plane’s controls were handed back to the pilots.

B24’s at work wreaking havoc in Germany

Ben had to have blind faith in the forward crew. He had no forward vision. Only a view to the rear and sides at the inevitable approach of German Messerschmitt Bf 109 fighter planes, that were sent to pick off the heavily bomb burdened B24’s before their loads were dropped on targets and afterward as well. Ben was the last defense of his plane, and two fifty caliber automatic guns had a lot to say regarding approaching flying henchmen and their bad intentions at ending the bombing run’s success and were intent at ending the lives of Ben and his crew. And should the parachute of an enemy fighter pilot have blossomed in Ben’s sights, that enemy pilot would never see another flight or threaten the likes of Ben and his counterparts again.

Ben had to have faith that his crew and God would see to it they found their targets and prayed clouds were absent over the intended place. That “bombs away” was accurate and then all the powers in the universe safely managed the newly lighter and more nimble return flight to the home base. And the entire rest of crew had to have faith that God and Ben would protect them from death approaching from the rear.

There was a great deal of faith being carried on these heavy bombers, along with fuel, weapons, gun rounds, bombs, and crew. Evidently faith and prayers proved lighter than air on Ben’s flights as all thirty remained aloft and mostly whole long enough to deliver plane and crew to safe landings in the English countryside.

And although Ben had no specific religion prior to the war, he did have spiritual beliefs. It is evident that none of the thirty flights Ben was a part of were shot down or otherwise terminated. That is not to say none of them weren’t marred by damage, partially crippled and left in a dire need of divine intervention to prevent a bad end. On three occasions, other crews took planes up that Ben’s crew was originally scheduled to man. And on all three of those flights, luck eluded those men, as they and the planes were to perish.

A lot of frightened young combatants surely made promises of future dedication to serving God if they could be snatched from deliverance at heaven’s door when flights went very wrong. And after most of them escaped the worst, they simply passed the promise off as the mortality and urgency of the moment having caught them off guard.

My friend Ben was faced with such moments, but one in particular was the most telling and influential…One that lasted for many long minutes, enough to make up near to an hour. Perhaps it was more than an hour. I understand that such moments whether seconds in length, or days in duration, can cause a person to reflect, and influence a man to spend many decades dedicated to making good a promise made to God in the heat of battle.

More than once I’ve heard the recollection of one such seemingly doomed flight Ben endured and survived. I will never be able to fathom what it would have been like to be in a formation of over a hundred B24’s, nearing a target area while taking tremendous flak fire from many German cannons on the ground guarding the targets chosen by the American Army Air Force to be destroyed that day.

Not to forget the Messerschmitt fighters flying nearly twice as fast as the heavy bombers and threatening every one of them.

A Messerschmitt Bf109 hunting B24 Liberators…

And not unlike the forces today, many of these brave crewmen were in their late teens and early twenties. At home, most would still be a bit wet behind the ears, attending college or working in a mill…Just being young men.

But back in the sky and in the cold…perhaps fifty below zero, with dangerously close red flashes of the flak ordinance exploding with dire possibilities and certainly bad intentions. As red hot shrapnel made its way through the thin aluminum skin of B24’s and into the vitality and well-being of our flyers and their machines…

On a mission in German skies, that very flak had its way with the two outermost engines on Ben’s plane. The two inside engines were still operable, but the B24 was handicapped sufficiently that the pilot had to leave the protection of the large bomber group.

A bad day in the skies of Germany…hit by flak.

This was akin to a single zebra falling behind a herd of fellow zebras on the African plain. A pride or even single lion or leopard…any big African cat will key in on the weakest, the oldest, the injured, the young, and vulnerable. And generally this is the last few moments of the straggled…suffice to say I could sense the potential hopeless essence and gravity of this very long moment as Ben recalled it some seven decades later…

With a feeling of resignation to either perish or live to become POW’s in a German camp, the plane and crew were forced to separate from their friends there in the sky. They lost the heavenly protective group along with altitude.

At this point on a normal faltered and wayward flight, the Messerschmitt Bf 109’s would close in and mercilessly kill the floundering plane. There was no doubt during those fateful long moments, in that cold, noisy, stinking, shaking and shuddering, albatross of a plane, that minutes ago had been a bird of prey…a crew of terrified and justifiably, there were some freshly religious and praying young men.

Ben would have been somewhat isolated from whatever lay in front of the plane, not privy to the view the rest of crew was likely seeing…And so I imagine he prayed, and huddled down even tighter in his would be coffin…and I imagine he talked to the man upstairs, about seeing the sunrise, about touching the face of his future bride and imagined their unborn children. He may not have put it into so many eloquent words, but he did in fact make a deal to be at the beckon call to God for the long run…if wheels touched friendly ground and a free and healthy future was still in the plan. Ben made a midair dedication to serve God, in exchange for a place to land and embrace the broken earth waiting there. It was a promise to be “his” for the duration, plain, honest, and simple.

I expect they waited for the German fighters to end them. To use their four automatic machine guns to fire bursts of lead to perforate, aerate, and dismantle that once proud Liberator.

Without explanations, the Bf 109’s never closed in for the kill, the rounds never fired, and the Grim Reaper didn’t visit that spot in the sky that day.

But in those long desperate and confusing moments, the front crew of that bomber lost their bearings and their direction for a while. Gathering his wits and know how, the navigator soon found that with the use of a sextant, they were at least heading West, toward kinder air…toward the English Channel. But now perhaps to an end by ditching and drowning. But splashdown never came, and the cold dark water eventually gave way to mother earth once more…

And desperately searching eyes were soon served up with the ultimate answer to the many earnest prayers…a landing strip out there in the distance. A pitifully small strip meant to cater to much smaller planes than this lumbering and wounded heavy bomber.

Unbeknownst to the grateful crew, the landing strip in Belgium had recently been liberated from and abandoned by the Germans. However, liberating the strip had called for a lot of bombs that had pretty much redesigned the runway…big bombs that left big holes. Craters more than large enough to have caused the tired bomber to tip and catapult…cartwheel, and break apart with lethal and fiery results…

But somehow in the dwindling light, none of that occurred and the plane and crew stopped short of the end of that abbreviated runway. And even better yet, they were miraculously greeted by friendly faces, and ushered to a somewhat cozy hangar to sleep in.

A hangar perhaps like the one Ben and his crew found refuge after their near miss with death over Germany.

Overnight, the expired engines were replaced, and patches were placed over assorted holes through the skin of the kindly spared and newly revived Liberator. Both craft and crew were warriors no doubt, but had more than a flock of guardian Angels keeping it all aloft and spared from a fateful end that day.

And for Ben and his thirty flights; against all conventional odds, all days were to end safely. Hallelujah…

After Ben was finished with his commitment to the war and duty in his gun turret, he made good his wartime promise to God. Ben attended Multnomah Bible College in Portland Oregon, where he met his future wife, Elizabeth, nicknamed “Betty”, and he graduated in 1949. The two of them were married and started a church in Astoria Oregon. Ben was a minister for about 20 years. Ben and Betty parented two sons, David and Peter, and eventually settled in Walla Walla, Washington.

In the 1980’s, Ben heard a calling to focus some of his attentions on bettering the world of folks behind the Iron Curtain. After making blind donation shipments of bibles to Eastern bloc countries (Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Poland), Ben was invited by the leader of the European Baptist Fellowship to tour behind the Iron Curtain as a guest minister there. Ben used his own funding and three week vacation periods to make a yearly journey there for the next eleven years.

Ben has shared with me that the people behind that curtain tended to be desperately poor, and mostly had just each other and very meager means to stay alive. He also shared that they were the most faithful and inspiring people he had ever met. That they needed no specific denomination, no fancy building, or organization. He said simply, that their church consisted of people, their love for each other, and abiding faith. The spirit of those souls in light of such poverty still lifts him to this day.

Example of a wooden church in Ukraine where Ben served as a guest Minister in the 1980’s.

On a personal note; It is amazing to me how universal the statement made by too many souls around us that, “one person can’t make a difference”…Ben (and I) know that to be a falsehood and go about at least trying to affect a positive ripple in our daily efforts and projections regarding everyday life situations. One person can be very effective. People are seeking hope and the good in the world. One person can very much provide that light.

I have been privileged to have had Ben share his opinions, his life experiences and efforts with me. His perspective is tempered by having been drawn into a world war and having had his youth interrupted, inconvenienced, and ultimately and ironically, had the course of his life positively focused by and because of that awful war.

Because of his ongoing involvement with members of all branches of the various services, Ben did share an observation with me. He said that regardless of the era, those young combatants are from, that he can always identify a true warrior. That over the decades, the makeup and attitude of a true natural warrior doesn’t change. There are young men (and women now) that have the internal stuff that makes for a soul having what it takes to carry the battle to our enemies. Some folks are just meant for the stuff that wars are made of.

He also understands that a true warrior might have issues with integrating back into everyday dealings here at home, and with being separated from their brothers and sisters in arms. There is an array of baggage that may and can accompany a service member home from the duty on the battlefield, assignment to a field hospital, and various other support roles near to the front.

No matter what Ben shares with me, there is always an air of decisiveness, and an abundance of hard earned knowledge of the adversaries that good people face. He has a quiet determination and a long kindled proverbial “fire in his gut” regarding injustices and evil doings.

I also have noted another trait I will call a great quality about Ben. In all our discussions over the years, he displays the most incredible dedication and passion in his every endeavor. Ben has a compassion for people in general, but especially for the fighters of wars.

In reality, Ben is among a dwindling few remaining members of the greatest generation. I meet some of them in my town on a regular basis. I usually come to recognize them by the sighting of a baseball cap sharing their membership in a branch of a service involved in WWII. I will regularly stop that individual and thank him for his service and attempt to strike up at least a short conversation. These voices should be heard, and will soon all be silenced when they are called on to their rewards, and possibly to reunions with buddies lost in battle sixty some years ago.


Most members of that war have until recently been tight lipped about what they did and witnessed in the course those awful years. Most moved on to civilian lives and never looked back at the interruption to their young lives. There has to be a prevailing pride and sadness that accompanies those having been a part of that war. Ben has never really turned away from that war nor those that followed. He has supported members fighting wars in our history, leading to the aggressions that are current today. He has had no reprieve, or break from the horrors of war in near to seventy years.

He reflects sadly on a more recent trend of wars and warriors. The involvement of women in war zones in both support roles and combat positions. That war is hard on any individual is a given. But that war should be harder on the women members of various service branches who regularly become victims of assault of many kinds, at the hands of male members of their own units is a crying shame. The daughters and sisters and mothers of fellow citizens are suffering through despicable events and the consequential demands for silence and tolerance from the victims. This trend really angers and saddens Ben, as well it should. It is hard enough to add support to the members of returning members of combat units suffering with the residual effects of war in general terms. But chauvinism and sexual assault ought not to be among the causes of ill effects of our female volunteers. I too reflect the shame and disgust Ben feels regarding such matters.

In my daily dealings and later regular visits with him, Ben always said the same thing at the close of an afternoon. “I have to get home to Betty. She needs me more every day”.

Late in 2010, Ben lost the love of his life, Betty, to a sudden illness. This was in addition to having lost of his son, David, 44, in 2003.

old grave

Like my father, Ben had just one lady in his life. Each had but one girl, later to become his wife. My dad and mom were together for over fifty years, Ben and Betty for over sixty. These are good old fashioned men with the right to say they are still there for their women even after death did part them.

After the loss of his wife, Ben stayed home from work for a few weeks to deal with the usual things that go along with such an event. But he reflected after returning to the Chaplain position and his duties, that while being home, he had begun to lost lose track of time, of the days of the week (and I think perhaps a lack of purpose in life.) He knew he was needed back at the VA Hospital, and that should he choose to not return to work, that he would simply soon perish.

Ben is still a popular guest speaker much in demand. His schedule is mostly full, and he still travels and drives on his own. His son Peter lives in Arizona, and receives visits from his father whenever Ben has the time to break away from work. Such a rare and remarkable man, my friend Ben.

I wrote the following essay to honor Ben, and indirectly my father too. Both men will spend their twilight years without their late wives, and both appreciated the piece and reflected on the sentiments I penned.

For my good friend Ben, whose blushing bride recently went on ahead of him after six decades at his side…

After sixty one years, the life that accompanied mine no longer shares the morning coffee, the news of the day. She no longer stirs the pot I momentarily forgot…fills the ice tray I left nearly empty. She is no longer the soul breathing quietly there on the pillow next to mine…nor a conversation long after the day has passed.

I’ll still talk to her, and reach for her hand when I stroll. I’ll still snatch a rose from a bush down the way; sing her a line from a special song. I’ll stir my coffee quietly, and tuck my shoes away…just in case she is still lingering somehow…


I’ll want to always please her, to take away the evening chills…to find a way to kindly tease her…I’ll still keep my promises, and after sixty one years, my vows still remain. My attentions and intentions are the same. I have often said I’d like to live yet another eighty eight years. I have a feeling I will be re-living the last sixty or so every day from now on…The thought of her still makes me smile, still makes me proud, and still accompanies my thoughts from the waking moment to the midnight’s dreams…

I’ll breathe in her essence, and exhale her laughter…again and again…until there are no longer moments…no longer breaths. Till there are no more promises left to be kept, no more roads to follow, no songs left to sing…And then, and then, and then…she’ll fill my cup, and my hand…with hers, my heart with her pulse, my mind with her poetry and prose…my eyes with the creations and senses there in the canvas, parchment, pen and ink, palette and brush…And from her imagination…

And from across a crowded room, I will again seek her warmth, her steps softly accompanying mine…And again there will be tears, but of joy this time…And while others bid adieu to he who has been missing her, I will be looking again into those eyes, listening to the quiet welcoming behind those familiar sighs… We will again be young…and old all at once. Familiar, yet fresh and full of youthful anticipation…I will finish saying what you begin, and as before…I‘ll cling to your every word. For now, I’ll keep you close in my heart, until again you’re close at hand…

two old hands

Matthew Landsman 6/20/11

I treasure every moment he chooses to share with me when I call him, or make my way to Walla Walla. I cling to his every word of advice, of his vivid recollections, and of him inviting me join him in spreading infectious optimism. I celebrate our friendship, and treasure his encouragement for me to continue writing and to find a larger and larger audience, so that I might make a difference in the word, as he has. I marvel at his nearly 90 years of honorable and rare dedication, but mostly I just love him as a treasured friend.

And one more thought…When I do see Ben at the VA facility, I often walk with him to his appointed duties on my way to my car. Ben is nearly 90 and I am just 53, and I cannot keep up his walking pace without effort, even with my much longer legs. Ben has not slowed down over the past few years, so I expect he will be taking care of struggling veterans and looking forward to our visits for years to come. God Bless you Ben, and yes; that is a redundant thing I say.

I gifted this writing to Ben, in honor of his 90th birthday on September 25, 2012.


…But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep…
(Robert Frost)

Matthew Lyle Landsman, September 2012.

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Recently, I visited a park on the Snake River about forty miles from my home. I went to the campground to visit old friends from my teens, when I lived in the country in the green side of Oregon. I descended on the lot of them just after dinner time, in the heat of an Eastern Washington evening in mid-August. After I located their campsites, I returned to the parking lot where I left my car and walked back to join the familiar array of vacationers…a spot about a quarter mile from the parking lot.

It was a good visit with old friends…food and cool water to drink, a very pink sunset (thanks to wildfires in the desert)…and a campfire to visit around till it was nearly time the park gates were to close and lock; hastening my departure and another forty mile drive home under the stars.

Normally I ride my motorcycle to the camp spot and can park it nearby, leaving me with a headlamp and a simple departure no matter the depth of desert darkness that accompanies zero effect from city lights and no surrounding homes. But on this night, without a flashlight or even a visible moon, I was left out in “country dark”. In other words, it was as dark as a night can be under clear skies with trees and wilderness as far as the eye can see.

There was a narrow paved roadway I had walked in late evening light…with trees fringing the park and grass on either side of the modest roadway. That night there was no visible moon. Stars were partially hidden by trees. My feet and hands were not visible to my eyes. It was country dark. In that sort of darkness, I am aware the roadway still exists, that my hands still grace my wrists, and feet follow the ankles. That everything existing in the light still stands in the darkness. That fir and fawn will still be as they were at twilight, come the dawn.

I recalled such country dark walks I took when I was first getting to know these high school friends in Oregon. I had to hold out my arm to know I wasn’t about to drift off into blackberry bush and brambles there at either side of the gravel road I trod back when…between the house of a neighbor and mine about a quarter of a mile apart. At night in rural western Oregon, one (still) finds country dark and a lot of gravel roads lined by tall timber and covered by a small dark sky. At the ages of fourteen and fifteen, a young guy is filled with bravado and a need to demonstrate bravery and an omniscient air. It is a rite of passage to set out into the night with keen young eyes, a steady stride, and a sense of purpose. Oh, I forgot, and bellbottom jeans wet up past the ankle.

Country dark on a moonless night. A knowledge that what is there during the day will still be there at night. There is life that occurs after dark and is lit by artificial sources. But real life has to include an occasional trek without much more than memory and the senses. One can choose to remain indoors, safe and dry and assured. But some moments find us having to set out in times of need, of dire circumstances, of real life calling one to leave the safety and comfort of proverbial home. Sometimes we are asked to go where we haven’t, to walk on unbroken places with no paths, and too, over broken roads. In times of illness, of injury, of a soul in harm’s way. Asked to embark out into metaphoric country dark and answer to a selfless need and deed for the greater good. And we bring our own internal light, provided by courage, dedication, reflex, and a true need to do what is right.

How does one explain such a rising to the occasion with no prior experience at such a calling? How do we justify setting out with no certain plan, no real end game, no idea what to do when we arrive. Life provides us with its own version of country dark. It is called parenthood, old age, adolescence, cancer, troubled pregnancy, war, and returning home afterwards. It is called a broken economy, a loss of self-respect, of the only certainty being the uncertainty we face. Country dark.

One can only marvel at the ability for a young man or woman to volunteer into the various military services. Hoping to earn an education and a fair mortgage in return for service and sacrifice. Knowing well, but hoping against the nagging reality that down the road one can land in the midst of a mountainous or sandy desert country surrounded by souls who not only speak no English, or respect democracy, or in fact; life itself. And yet kids continue to enlist, train, sacrifice, deploy and face the possibility of a very long and perilous journey into a foreign country dark. Nights outdoors with light only from distant stars and muzzle flash, jet fighter afterburners, distant and not so distant artillery ordinance raining down death and destruction. All this with a promise of peril and later; possible lingering shadows that could remain even when one has returned home and left service behind. In essence, the past service draws one back to the darkness in dreams and waking hours too. Out of country, and in country-darkness. God bless those young people and their families.

Back to my walk in the dark to my car…and a walk I made time and again nearly forty years ago. I used to be afraid of the dark, because of what I didn’t know. As a child, I was scared because of what I imagined could be in the darkness. In truth, I knew nothing for sure, other than that I was in fear. Over time, my fear of the dark, both actual and metaphoric, waned in tune with my growth as a person, my maturity level, my accumulation of facts over unfounded imaginings. I learned with experience, with self-assuredness and confidence.

But the main reason a dwindling of the unknown took place, simply and honestly…was an accumulation of the teachings of time, of good explanations of unanswered and misunderstood questions and answers. Of a culmination and acceptance of mysteries and their burdens. The things taught to me by my various teachers: parents, my clergy, my knowing family and friends. My logic and intuition. In a word: Faith.

In times and journeys in darkness, even without sight, there can be vision. Even without a prior time of having been in a certain place, either physically or spiritually, be it a time of ill health, or potential losses of love, of security, of emotional sanctuary, or of life itself…Even in the midst of a metaphoric country dark, there is a guiding hand should you extend yours and allow it to be taken. There is an inner compass steadied by simply believing you can navigate in an implacable darkness. Time and times spent in earnest seeking of the truth will point you to your true north.

That light exists both inside, and in the sky. Even under gathering storm clouds and a mantle of tall timber, there is still that star, that truth, that light. An open heart depletes the cloak of things unseen. An open mind and good old faith brings uncertainty from the shadows, sheds disbelief from things unsure, and many other things that can’t be seen or touched, or heard, or explained.

Faith has a way of lighting those things unknown and lost in country dark. It is light that clarifies depth, provides shadows and exposes a lack of depth, and brings dimension to things lacking in substance and unapparent worth. Faith can shed light on the truth, and also on the absence of truth.

In country darkness, there can be a pure certainty in what you choose to believe with a lack of distractions. In full light, even though we want to believe with all certainty, there are always shadows, always places one can’t see behind or around. There can be deceptive places where depth is undefined. There can be false fronts, false securities, mirages, euphoria, and reflections beyond brilliant that dull the rest of things around us. In country dark, we are limited to what we know from memory, from intelligent deduction, and focus on the other senses. And a confidence in knowing and believing in what cannot be seen. In other words; faith.

Even a young war combatant knows about faith. In fellow patriots, in training, faith in the knowledge of prayers from home, letters from home. A faith in oneself, and certainly; faith in God. Even faith at the moment of mortality, that one hasn’t been abandoned.

There can be darkness in the light of day, which can be lit and illuminated only by faith, pure and simple.

Forty years after my first walks in country dark, I walk a similar path again. And after nearly fifty three years of living and learning, I am still somewhat afraid. I am cautious because of what I know is and isn’t out there in the dark, and yet I still journey. Still walk without a flashlight, and still arrive at my destination. I am still a bit leery of what I cannot see along an unlit path, still have no actual sense of navigations should I be somehow spun around. But I am wise enough to eventually find my bearings somehow, smart enough to stay put if need be till infant dawn, and considerate enough to know that my true north cannot be compromised by an easier path, and that faith has and will always bring me to know home again, even in the mist and midst of a country dark, the path will be clear. I have faith because of what I finally know, and what I am able to simply believe. Even in good old country dark, even today, there is a way…Faith.

Matthew Landsman

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I’ve combined my thoughts from yesterday together for you on this Veteran’s day, 2010

You may have noticed I have been paying tribute and giving thanks to Veterans and current members of the military all day. You can go to my profile and see them all there.

Don’t forget to pray, and say thanks every chance you get folks…

If you choose to learn a language, or join a friend at their church next weekend, remember this: That you choose to learn German, Japanese, Italian, Russian or any other tongue. If you want to worship Buddha, the Koran, the Bible, Jesus, Jehovah, Satan, or nothing at all…remember, the only reason you have such choices, is because of young volunteers (and former draftees) in the military defending those rights.

Last Christmas, I traveled to the house of a friend and her son Austin. This spring when he graduated high school, Austin left for Marine Boot Camp. He is currently training in Twenty Nine Palms, California. I never looked on this young guy as a potential hero when he was 10 years old and playing paintball. But in light of becoming a Marine in the midst of two current wars, I can only look on in awe and say thanks. Thank you Austin.

Because I served only vicariously, (as a friend and writer many who did serve have shared with me their experiences)…When I lay down at night, I will recall their generosity, but I will share no common dreams with them. My four older brothers all served in the army while I was in high school and told me they had, so I didn’t have to.  Today, and all days I have a lot of veterans and active members to thank.

I am good friends with an elderly Chaplain who was a tail gunner on a B24 bomber for 30 bombing missions over Germany in WWII. I am also friends with an 80 something year old veteran of WWII who was in the German army as a 15 year old. He believed in the cause, until he found out it was unjust and un-winnable. His friendship is as true as the other. Good men in a bad moment.

I love them both. Both taught me about forgiveness. Both taught me about the horrors of war. Both taught me to not forget. But mostly, they both helped me to heal the angers and fears I was brought up with…They need to meet, and one day shall…where there are no judgments to endure…and they will embrace, and find other; better things to talk about. That is what they taught me…

If you have a memory that haunts you from time to time, a moment that wakes you in a cold sweat from a life event…stop and think about our veterans and current members of our military that have years of such horror to live with and carry around for the rest of their existence. And know too they can only truly relate to those others who went through it with them, and that many of them were lost in the midst of it all.

When you’re on your boat, burning all that gas and just soakin up the suds and sun, remember there are and have been military folks at sea for months on end, being tossed by relentless wave and wind. They have superiority of the ocean and air, but at a huge risk to life and craft. Their days are nearly without end, smiles from loved ones are but memories…All so you can spend carefree days in the sun…

If there is warm sand between your toes, and you’re enjoying it…keep in mind there is a member of our military, man or woman, in the heat of a desert far from home with combat boots in hot sand, with hot rounds coming and going all around ’em. They are not having fun, nor are they aware of your bliss…but still they continue to do what they do, so yours is safe and without fear…

Matthew Landsman…Your humble scribe… Thursday, 11 November 2010armyboots

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My response to the cliché …’you can’t live in the past…’
It is my past that taught me about tomorrow. It was my past that gave me failure to turn to future victory. My past that gave me every embrace and smile from my mother, to sustain me through all my tomorrows. My past that nourished me and gave me all my height and every ounce of sinew, that I carried to field of hay, field of play, all the strength to heft tool and toil for long days in both chilled air and heat.
It is my past that brought me all the smiles that I recall as I hope to find new smiles today. My past that urges me when I am shadowed with doubt, and look to the reserve of memory that tells me in fact; I can. Because I have. And I know I will again. It is my past that proves to me, that educated me with lessons hard and harsh, with tough love and subtle reminders.
It is every moment of my past that I am a cumulative result of. My failings taught me to live and learn. My winning moments taught me to be gracious and to always look back. And my losses taught me to be kind when I did win…for the victory isn’t in humiliating and demoralizing others…It isn’t done when I have won. It is done when I have helped the one who tried and fell short, to rise again and learn to enter the arena another day. My past of mixed results has made me a better man.
My past gave me a child, and ushered him away into the world. My past made me a father, and gave me the need to father, even if not my own. The past also took away some fathers from those kids for which I rise up to fill that void. The failings of others are the opportunity for me to rise to the occasion and help give a kid a future. I know this, because I live in the past. Their past…
My past nearly ended me, and drove me to my knees. It saw me torn and broken. The arrogance of youth is soon lost in a sea of humble…an ocean of humiliation. I hold those crevasses of foolishment close to my heart…so I never return to that stretch of road. Those moments are the ones that continue to remind me how fortunate I am to be among the living. I live in the past, so I can continue to live. I got sober in my past, and that moment is revisited often.
Something about my past shines with a recollection; that no matter the darkness of the hour, of glow of jubilant hours, I have always found my faith kept me afloat, reminded me to be grateful. I haven’t always embraced those moments when I probably should have, but the essence has followed me and waited there with open arms, an open mind and heart…healed me, forgiven me, schooled me and loved me without fail. I don’t live in the past, but my past lives on in me.
My past gave me teachings from my parents and the world around me. God followed and accompanied me, even when I lived some days with reckless abandon. No matter how my past has been taken for granted, I never found myself abandoned. I don’t dwell on my past; I let it teach me the moral of the story. And remind me of those things, people, and moments I like to revisit, but not to reside there anymore.
Welcome to my past, I’ll learn what it taught me; tomorrow. MLL

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Nearly summer. We had the first dose of heat in the last couple of days. I see the entire community is in full blossom and pristine new leaves. I see bare feet and bicycles and open windows and doors. I feel the kids anticipating the end of school year and that old restless feeling of springtime and being cooped up inside.
I was reminded of things I miss, people I miss, places I thought I’d forgotten, and songs I couldn’t get enough of…
And suddenly it dawned on me; I want to run through sprinklers again.
I want to wake up a few minutes after dawn, and pull yesterday’s tee shirt over my head. Before anyone else is awake, I want to turn the TV on and have the volume way down low, I want to watch Aquaman, and the Monkees in black and white, all while eating cinnamon toast and a bowl of cereal with farm fresh milk. The kind we got in the glass gallon jar with a few inches of thick cream on the top.
I rarely wore shoes, and could run on cement. Once I learned how to ride a bicycle, I was all over our little town. Tragedy was a flat tire, darkness and still a ways to get home. I was scared of the dark…not like today because I KNOW what is out there, but simply because I didn’t. Dark was dark, and that was all.
I want to go barefoot all day again, over gravel and hot blacktop, and cool grass and through warm mud puddles. I even want to stub my toe the old fashioned way and walk home on my heel and bleed like a nine year old tough guy.

I want to eat my grandma’s apple pie, and have her ask me to go pick out a cucumber and a head of lettuce from the garden in her back yard. And I want her and my Momma to be having coffee together, and wondering if I’m ever going to grow? (I was a pretty small kiddo.)


Back when being 60 was real old, and the guy at the gas station actually came outside, and worked for a living and checked under the hood. And when the pump dial stopped turning, he “topped it off”. I want to marvel at muscle cars again…when they were brand new and only worth $3000…not $50,000.
I want to ride in the way back of our 1966 Chevy Belair station wagon and lay on a blanket…watching the stars out the back windows till I fell asleep before we got home…after a long day at the farm. I want a grandpa again. I want to explore his farm again…and smell the smells, and see dust floating in sunbeams. I want to ride on the back of his tractor and watch him roll a cigarette with one hand. I want to watch my uncles stack hay and feed cattle. I want all the adults to talk for an hour between the back porch and pulling away in the car.
I want to have a day with no plan, no goal, leave the house with sleep in my eyes, flyaway hair, seventeen whole cents and a Hot Wheels dragster in my pocket, a Band-Aid on my stubbed toe (for the first half hour), eat a chic-o-stick for lunch, hang out with my friends from dawn to way after dusk…and I want to run through sprinklers again. Oh how I want to run through sprinklers again.
Matthew Landsman, circa 1965 to 1971


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