He Shared the Blessings of America
A remembrance of a small town premier of Ken Burns' The War, and belated thanks to Elwood and so many others
It was late summer in 2007.
At a Ladies’ Guild meeting in tiny Hardwick, Minnesota, over macaroni salad and zucchini bread, we inadvertently found out some exciting news. We’d all heard of Ken Burns, the filmmaker best known for documentaries on American subjects like jazz, baseball, and the Civil War. In an amazing coincidence, the man himself would be in Luverne, just south of Hardwick, the following day for the world premiere of his epic The War. It was his newest documentary, written around four Americans who fought in World War II. Their hometowns, four places across the country, and the war experience on the home front would also be highlighted. Quentin Aanenson, a fighter pilot born and raised in the southwestern Minnesota farming community, was one of the featured veterans. And Luverne, with its Midwest charm and the colloquial and painfully vivid wartime writings of Al MacIntosh, the editor of the Rock County Star, would find itself in the spotlight with the premiere of the film.
Though the tickets to the evening showing were far beyond our budget—at one hundred dollars a pop—we figured, heck, how often does Ken Burns come to southwestern Minnesota? We were going to head down and see the fun.
We drove down in the late afternoon to meet up with friends and their four children. When we arrived, they were checking out the vintage cars parked in front of the courthouse, where locals were scheduled to speak before a parade to the Palace Theater where the showing would be. Our friends’ son, their youngest child, wondered how the convertible owners could get the hoods on fast enough should rain appear, as the gears on the old cars were manual. The sky overhead misted with gray clouds and threatened to test his theory.
We went to dinner at the Pizza Ranch two doors down from the newly renovated Palace. Our meal was largely a quotidian experience—our friend asked the kids to eat salad along with their pizza, a teenage waiter brought us fried chicken since the buffet was out, we laughed and caught up on news since the last time we saw them. Then the evening news, broadcast on a largely ignored big screen in the middle of the restaurant, turned to a segment on Ken Burns’ visit to Luverne and the film’s premiere. All of a sudden, the conversations in the restaurant stilled, and everyone turned to watch. But it was only a moment, and the sound was low, and we soon resumed our conversations and our laughter.
The rain came during dinner; we watched it evolve from glistening sheets to half-hearted pitter-patter. But by the time we emerged, mints in mouth, the sun was trying to break through the still ubiquitous clouds. We walked back to the courthouse to find the presentation had been cancelled and the old cars had their hoods up. We returned to the Palace, fearful that the “red carpet” processional would be cancelled, too. That was our big moment, the chance to see Ken Burns for a fleeting moment. The kids and I strategized as to how to get Mr. Burns’ autograph for my long-distant sisterp. Perhaps the youngest daughter could trip in front of him and after he asked what he could do—because he would be unfailingly polite—she would smile winsomely and whip out the little pad and pen. We giggled over our plans.
People milled here and there, as 1940s-era music played over loudspeakers. Most were dressed casually; the American Legion members who had the honor of holding the flags at the entrance of the theater tried to figure out what order to be in as onlookers tried to figure out the best place to stand. I saw a man with a World War II veteran hat on, standing nearby. I approached him and thanked him for his service. He smiled and said, “Thank you for thanking me.”
I said something, protesting politely, about how he was the one who should be thanked. Who was I but some young woman in her mid-twenties? I was surprised when his face turned serious and he looked me close. Then he said, “Young lady, there’s only one thing you should remember. Four hundred and seven thousand boys just like me went to war, and they never came home. It is because of what they gave that we can live the way we do.”
His eyes were misty. I blinked to stop my sudden tears and my eyes caught the top of the M—Hotel, one built by dedicated hands early in the 20th century, and I thought, “We live such comfortable, leisurely lives, without even thinking of it.” I wondered how many, many times he had thought the words he had just said out loud to me, a stranger.
What a priceless and heavy burden it would be, to live proud of the service you gave, and every once in a while, like this time, to be rightly honored for that service, but to know that you are honored because you lived, and loved and worked, and so many others—your friends, your neighbors, your cousins and brothers—never reaped those earthly joys. They never came home. Standing on a dusky street, smelling the wet pavement, watching the excitement of people over a film that portrayed the great national unity and terrible suffering of world conflict many years before—the quotidian and special moment was shocking in its clarity of what so many young men lost, and what their brethren would carry. Their full lives also empty of those who were no longer there.
The man told me his name—Elwood, from Chandler, Minnesota. He served as a junior officer in the Navy, a role he described as “not anything real important.” He served on a ship in the south Pacific for over 700 consecutive days. No leave. “It was one month shy of two years,” he said. Elwood’s daughter came up and he showed me her shirt—on the front was his name and a picture of his 21-year-old self in Navy whites. On the back was the ship on which he sailed and the places he landed, the last being Okinawa. “We landed there on Easter morning, 1945,” he said.
He spoke of how little young people know about the war and about the world generally. Not disparagingly, but sadly. “They must learn about what happened,” he said. Not to honor him, but to remember and understand the sacrifice of all the young men who never came home.
Soon after, the “red carpet” began—without the rolled up lush crimson softness we’d seen stowed in the back of a pickup. A lady came through and yelled happily for everyone to move back from the entrance, and if anyone had tickets they could come through now. No security, all very informal and comfortable. Many veterans and their wives went in first. Then local dignitaries squeezed through the crowd bunched around the entrance. Finally, the dozen or so out-of-town photographers snapped out of their bored slouches and jumped to the front of the line. Some old cars came around the corner and the photographers suddenly appeared in front of the local onlookers. The cars delivered Luverne vets who had been interviewed for the film. Then Quentin Aanenson arrived, and everyone clapped as he and his wife slowly walked the twenty-five yards or so toward the theater doors. Then the silver car with Ken Burns came around the corner! He was waving through the window with a grin like an excited child, and he emerged from the car to cheers and applause. We were perhaps fifteen feet from him when he got out of the car. He shook hands and posed for some pictures, and then went into the theater. The crowd milled about some more, perhaps reluctant to leave after waiting that long. I didn’t see where Elwood and his daughter went.
We noticed a room adjoining the theater that seemed to have paraphernalia related to the film. We weren’t sure if we were allowed in but my husband—characteristically—plowed ahead and came back to us. “We should all go in there,” he said. There was free publicity lit for the film and a few things being sold. A television set up on a cart in the corner showed a local leader inside the theater on a live stream. As we browsed, a theater man came up behind us. “There’s empty seats in the balcony, if you’d like to come in for free.” Would we! Jon and I, our friends and their kids, were dumbfounded at our luck. We crept into the theater—all of us in casual clothes—and up the back stairs to the balcony, where ushers helped us find seats. Almost as soon as we sat down, Ken Burns appeared on stage. We couldn’t believe it.
We watched about one hour’s worth of the documentary—a painfully short teaser that Burns admitted was brutal to edit. (He joked that the doors would be locked and we’d be released at about 8:00 the next morning after we previewed the entire fifteen-hour documentary). Yet the teaser was enough to bring us to tears and recognize the very human experience of the war from people who lived it. Norah Jones’s version of “American Anthem” caused me to ache at the sacrifice of an earlier generation, and also to start—I’d heard this before! Just after September 11, 2001, as fellow Valpo music students and I reeled from what had occurred, we attended a workshop featuring Nathan Gunn, an up-and-coming opera star. His tribute to 9/11, a bone-shaking version of “American Anthem,” was the only song I remembered him singing. And here it was again, sung by Jones in a very different but just as emotional setting.
After the film, Burns came on stage again and said he’d take some questions. There was a pause, in which no one moved. So I raised my hand, and a nice usher came over with a mic—despite my rumpled polo and jean skirt—and I stood and introduced myself. Then I asked, “How did you begin putting together the film? How did you find the cities you spotlighted—how did you find Luverne? And the people?”
I figured this was a predictable question for Burns. How often had he been asked to explain how he focused on four veterans and four American towns out of the thousands of possibilities? Sure enough, he talked about how he and his team focused on the other towns (Sacramento, California; Mobile, Alabama; and Waterbury, Connecticut, which Jon and I had incidentally lived near during his vicarage). Burns then searched for a small town in the Midwest to capture the rural, close-knit war experience. Burns met Quentin Aanenson, who spoke of his hometown in Luverne, and Burns was intrigued. Upon further investigation, he and his team unearthed the Rock County Star and Al MacIntosh’s moving writings. It was set. Luverne, one of the safest places in the country, let alone the world, in Burns’ words, would be the place.
A few others asked questions, and the presentation wound down. We came away with numerous signed copies of The War, a giant book with photos and other writings featured in the film. And we came away with memories that we still have.
On this Independence Day, I’m sorry that I never fully edited and submitted what I wrote about our experiences now almost seventeen years ago. I did some searching for Elwood this week, but since I didn’t write down his last name—I don’t remember if I even asked him for it—I didn’t get very far. But I am so grateful for him, and for so many Americans, who lived and fought for our country.
It’s easy enough to feel defeated about what our country has become and what the future holds for The Land of the Free. We are a decadent place, and there is far too much evidence that we no longer cherish the sort of hard work, prudence, moral clarity, and responsibility that good self-governance requires. When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for citizens to evaluate what their country has become, what are they to do, when it seems lost?
Today, I will remember Elwood, a man from a very small hamlet in rural Minnesota. I’m thankful to Ken Burns for sharing the history of World War II while veterans and their families and friends could still speak about it. Without his film, we wouldn’t have gone to Luverne or seen the elderly men who served their country. But I mostly am glad that men like Elwood, and Quentin, and so many others have lived, and I pray that our sons and daughters will grow to love their families and communities enough to be willing, if the time comes, to sacrifice like they did.
When watching films like ‘The War’ and ‘Band of Brothers’ it is evident why those who lived through a Great Depression and then fought for the very freedom we still enjoy are known as ‘The Greatest Generation’.