12 DECEMBER 2023 E ven now, more than 80 years later, I remember the dress Mom was wearing. It was faded blue, with little white flowers. She made it herself. It didn’t fit quite right, but she didn’t mind because it was just for wearing around the house after church on Sundays. The day was clear and sunny, hardly typical for December on the plains of North Dakota. The weather had turned unseasonably mild, so my brothers and I were playing in the front yard instead of huddling over the open furnace grate in the living room where we usually spent wintry Sundays, trying to keep warm. Mom came out of the house and stood on the front porch. She didn’t say anything, just stood there, looking first at us, then off into the distance with her arms clasped across her chest, staring out across a field that had earlier borne a wheat crop but now lay barren. Her presence was unusual because normally, as soon as the cold weather arrived, the front door was ritualistically closed and locked to hold back the slashing winter. But she had opened it so she could stand on the porch. And she was crying. Had it been a weekday, we might not have noticed. She always cried on weekdays because she listened to the soap operas on the radio. Sometimes, she’d suffer through “Young Widder Brown” or “Pepper Young’s Family” while she was cooking, and the tears would run off the end of her nose and drop into the stew. She just stirred it in with the meat and potatoes. But it was Sunday, and the soaps didn’t air on Sundays. And so, with the embarrassed hesitations and youthful attempts at comfort that accompany seeing your mother cry, we asked what was bothering her and if we could fix it with hugs and kisses, the way she always cured all our ailments, real or imagined. She gracefully acknowledged our feeble offerings, then gathered all three of us into her arms. “We’re at war,” she said. Though she sobbed the words out, there was comfort in them because we had been afraid it was something serious. But it was only a war, and wars were fun. We’d had one just the previous Friday afternoon. Dick and Jim, and I had held off two artillery divisions and a tank unit. According to our childish versions, they had come up from the south, from the fortress at Leichtenheizelburg and had already taken our neighboring towns. But they weren’t ready for what lay in store for them when they messed around with the Sixth Kensal North Dakota Armored Battalion. As wars go, this had been a relatively short one. It would have been longer, but Dick had to stay after school, so we had to wait around for him because he was the only experienced machine gunner in our unit, which meant he rode on the back of the tricycle while Jim pedaled. And because it was winter, the sun went down around five o’clock, so we only got in about a half-hour of actual combat. Mom’s anguish didn’t have quite the effect she might have expected. In fact, it was probably just the opposite because Dick released himself from her embrace and yelled, “Oh boy! War!” Then, with the proper saliva-enhanced sound effects, he fired off multiple rounds from the box elder tree branch that sort of looked like a machine gun when you squinted just right. And I, always willing to do anything to make my mother feel better, jumped in front of her as a brave young protector, then fell forward and clutched my stomach, the way the movies and my imagination always portrayed someone who had taken a direct hit. Instantly, however, I rose to my full upright position and assured her, “It’s only a flesh wound, ma’am, so put me back in the front lines with my buddies where I belong while you take shelter in that abandoned farmhouse.” But our childish efforts were in vain. Mom didn’t smile. Instead, she put her face into her hands and wept even harder, and these were not the gentle tears that fell when she listened to the soap operas. So we gathered once more around her and, in schoolboy fashion, patted her on the shoulders and tried to be of some comfort. “There, there,” we said, with as much sympathy as we knew how to generate, considering the circumstances. “It’ll be all right,” we said, hoping it would ease her pain as she had done for us so many times. She seemed to take some consolation in that, for she tried to dry her tears with the sleeve of her faded blue dress, then gathered all three of us into her arms, hugged us and smothered us with kisses. She went back inside, back to the radio to get more news, and we returned to whatever we had been doing before being interrupted by something so trivial as actual combat. “Guess Mom doesn’t know much about war,” I said as we resumed. “Guess not,” Dick replied while Jim cranked up our armored tricycle for the upcoming battle. It wasn’t a very good assessment. She knew. Remembering the ‘date which will live in infamy’ TheLowe The Lowe The Road The Road TheLowe Road Lowe The Lowe The Road The Lowe The A former Valley newspaperman who now writes about his travels across Arizona, the U.S. and the globe. BY SAM LOWE Sam’s mother on her fifth wedding anniversary in 1936. (right) The North Dakota Armored Battalion – Jim, Dick and Sam Lowe – in 1940. Enjoy this new Christmas song and help those in critical need! Get your free download and donate today to St. Vincent de Paul at heartsourcemusic.com – thank you! I am a long-time Arcadian and created this I am a long-time Arcadian and created this joyous Christmas song in gratitude for beating joyous Christmas song in gratitude for beating cancer. Your donation to St. Vincent de Paul will cancer. Your donation to St. Vincent de Paul will provide food and shelter for those in need – provide food and shelter for those in need – and restore hope during these difficult times. and restore hope during these difficult times. Special thanks to everyone behind this Special thanks to everyone behind this Christmas miracle including my wife Christmas miracle including my wife Catherine, Mark Vranesh, Arcadia News, Catherine, Mark Vranesh, Arcadia News, St. Vincent de Paul, and to all of you as St. Vincent de Paul, and to all of you as my fellow Arcadians for your support! my fellow Arcadians for your support! Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays! © Cover art: Mark Vranesh, nationally acclaimed artist, former Arcadian

13 DECEMBER 2023 After more than 35 years of what has grown to be the largest holiday lights display in Arcadia, Lee (aka Christmas Lee) and Patricia Sepanek have decided to take a break. Now that Lee has retired from a 45-year career in construction, he’s ready to enjoy looking at lights, instead of working on lights. “I didn’t decide on this course easily,” Lee said. “But it’s getting too expensive – the costs run more than $12,000 per season.” The largest expense is the electric bill, but there’s also storage fees and maintenance. Plus, there’s always new decorations. The setup for the 250,000-plus lights, yard displays and the hundreds of characters in the dioramas, is arduous work that starts in September and requires double-digit man hours every day. Plus, Lee is “out there every night from Thanksgiving through New Year’s.” “It started when I took my boys out to look at lights when they were young,” Lee said. “They asked if we could do it at our home and it just grew from there.” An average busy night probably brings a couple thousand visitors, but it’s hard to say how many for sure. Most people just drive by and miss the details that go into the operation, like the hot cocoa machine. “One season we served up nine thousand cups of cocoa,” Lee said. Over the years, he’s noticed there are generations of people who bring their kids to see the lights they used to go see when they were little. This year, Lee says they still plan on putting some lights up. They’ve also shared some of their collection with the neighbors, so Christmas cheer can still be found around the Christmas House on Calle Tuberia. Arcadia’s Christmas House dims the lights Patricia and “Christmas Lee” Sepanek Thank you to all of you who have been to my home over all these years and supported us. ANTHROPOLOGIE CORNELIA PARK GORJANA EVEREVE J.CREW LULULEMON SAKS FIFTH AVENUE WILLIAMS-SONOMA +MORE GET READY for fashion envy BIL-23135 A1 Arcadia News Ad.indd 1 11/9/23 3:02 PM