Give young Eisenhower his monument

Dwight David Eisenhower, 34th president of the United States, leader of the Allied assault on Nazi-held Europe, father of the Interstate Highway system and ender of the Korean War, is going to get his monument in Washington, D.C. His family is not happy with it.

The design for the proposed monument shows Eisenhower as a youth gazing out at images of his adult accomplishments against a backdrop of the Kansas plains.

His family prefers a more heroic display, depicting him "in the fullness of his achievements, not as a callow rustic who made good," according to an account in The New York Times.

I would like to suggest, gently and modestly, that the family reconsider.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to visit a beautiful lady named Lucie in her home in Alabama. She was the widow of Dwight's younger brother Edgar. She gave me a book by her brother-in-law titled, "At Ease: Stories I Tell to Friends" (Doubleday & Company, copyright 1967 by Dwight D. Eisenhower).

In the foreword to that book, Dwight (all of the Eisenhower brothers then bore the nickname "Ike") recalled when he was a 9-year-old boy in Abilene, Kan. He wrote:

"Possibly, like most boys, I was convinced that life was a flat plateau of assigned tasks, unchanging in monotony and injustice. I suppose, too, that the only peak on my personal horizon would have been something like entering the halls of higher learning (the eighth grade) or bathing in glory (becoming a full-fledged member of the high-school baseball team).

When his imagination soared in bold daydreams, he pictured himself as an engineer at the throttle of a steam engine, breaking the speed record between St. Louis and Abilene, or on the pitcher's mound, bases loaded, setting down the last three batters with nine pitches while 500 frenzied fans applauded.

"Certainly, I never thought of myself or those about me as makers or participants in any other kind of history," he wrote.

I can imagine the exhilaration General Eisenhower felt after he had successfully launched the greatest invasion force in history against the German defenses at Normandy and after setting down Adlai Stevenson twice in a row with the White House at stake, to the applause of millions. How sweet it must have been to view these accomplishments from the perspective of a 9-year-old boy in Abilene, Kan., whose loftiest ambition was to be an engineer on a steam-driven train.

So, I say to the family, "Let the boy share in the glory."

I keep an extensive file of family photos on a flash drive, and the one I keep going back to depicts a middle-aged man with a 9-year-old boy and two little girls. They're sitting on the front steps of a crude tenant shack on a dirt road 6 miles from Wagener. The year is 1946. The house is unpainted and speckled with age. The boy is barefooted, wearing denim overalls, with hair that looks like a rat's nest.

Looking back at that photo adds a luster to my own modest accomplishments - a luster that would not be there if I compared them to the accomplishments of contemporary friends. I live in a very modest home and drive a very modest car. What hair I now have is usually combed. I no longer wear overalls, though my suits are off the rack and my best shirts and slacks come from Burlington Outlets. Though I can choose among a number of pairs of shoes, if you call on me unannounced, you'll probably find me walking around barefooted or in my stocking feet.

In the eyes of my peers, my accomplishments are modest indeed. Career-wise, I'm no Lewis Grizzard or Dave Barry, and money-wise, I'm nowhere near Donald Trump. I once interviewed Walter Chrysler Jr. and was awe-struck when he told me that, at the age of 14, he used his allowance to buy his first painting - a Renoir. I later reflected that buying a Renoir with your allowance is no awesome feat when your daddy owns the Chrysler Corp. Poor Walter; he had no barefoot 9-year-old to admire his station in life.

But in the eyes of my 9-year-old, I'm a superstar. Instead of walking on wooden floors with holes that let you see the ground beneath, I now walk about on warm, soft carpet. Instead of going to a rotting wooden outbuilding behind the house, I can choose between two indoor facilities. Instead of bathing in a creek across the pasture (in warm months) or in a galvanized wash tub in the kitchen (in cold months), I can choose between a tub and a shower, both of which deliver hot water on the spot and discharge into city sewage. Instead of washing dishes in an enamel dishpan, using water heated on a kerosene stove, I can just place them in the dishwasher.

This is not remarkable to my contemporary friends, but to that 9-year-kid, it's something to revel in.

And I suspect Dwight Eisenhower felt even greater elation when he viewed his accomplishments through the eyes of the 9-year-old in Abilene.

His mind must have gone back to that kid when he read a letter from President Franklin Roosevelt to Marshal Josef Stalin regarding Operation Overlord - the code name for the invasion of Normandy. The letter was accompanied by a note from Gen. George C. Marshall, the nation's top soldier in World War II:

"I thought you might like to have this as a memento."

The letter from FDR to Stalin read: "The immediate appointment of General Eisenhower to command of Overlord operation has been decided upon."

From his perspective in memory, the 9-year-old boy from Abilene could see himself meeting with generals, admirals, field marshals, prime ministers, presidents, dictators and kings.

How sweet it must have been.

Give him the monument he deserves.

Readers may write Gene Owens at 104 Belspring Lane, Anderson, SC 29621, or email him at WadesDixieco@aol.com.

Gene Owens is a retired newspaper editor and columnist who graduated from Graniteville High School and now lives in Anderson.