America’s Anne Frank

Originally published in Flourishing December 2011.

November 11, 2011—Veteran’s Day—I was privileged to be in New York City, attending Nick Murray’s  Behavioral Strategies Conference.   I attend Nick’s conferences whenever I can, for the same reasons that I read his books, essays, and newsletter: Twenty years of reading Nick Murray has not just made me (I hope) a more effective advisor; it has (I know) made me a better husband, father, grandfather—and a better American.

As one example, in the March 2010 issue of his newsletter, Nick reviewed and recommended Delayed Legacy, by Conrad Netting IV.  Conrad’s father was the same age as my father, and like my dad, Conrad John Netting III set out to do his part to rid Europe of the Nazi scourge.  From June of 1944 through May of 1945, Ted Harvey walked and belly-crawled across Europe—from Omaha Beach through France, Belgium, and Germany—to the banks of the Elbe River.  Conrad Netting’s job was to provide air support for soldiers like Ted.

So, even before Allied infantry forces were fighting their way through the hedgerows of  Normandy, Conrad Netting was skillfully piloting his P-51 Mustang on missions to Berlin, Frankfurt and other German industrial centers.  Then, while on similar missions  after D-Day, Conrad—like many other courageous young pilots—didn’t hesitate to drop out of the clouds to take on German ground forces whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

It was on just such a mission on June 10, 1944 , as he strafed a German convoy—effectively saving the little French town of Saint-Michel-des-Andaines—that Conrad Netting III became a casualty of war.  Five weeks later,  his bride, Katherine Henderson Netting, gave birth to their son, Conrad John Netting IV.  (Look closely and you will see that Conrad’s P-51 was named ConJon IV.)

Katherine never remarried.  She packed up her husband’s belongings, and the many letters that had passed between her and Conrad, and stored them all—along with her memories—in a place that was to remain private for nearly fifty years.

On July 4, 1994, a year after his mother’s death, Conrad Netting IV learned about the foot locker stamped with his father’s name.  For the next decade, he explored—at home, and with the gentle people of Saint-Michel-des-Andaines—his long-delayed legacy. 

I bought Delayed Legacy on Nick Murray’s recommendation in April of 2010, and I’ve returned to it many times.  I never expected to meet its author.  But, in New York City on Veteran’s Day– 2011, Conrad Netting IV—who Nick Murray had likened to Anne Frank for the illustrative power of his personal story—autographed my well-worn copy of his book.  As I visited with Conrad, I found him to be just as charming as his book is wise. Katherine had raised a good man! I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so honored.

Today, Conrad Netting IV is a CPA and financial advisor in San Antonio, Texas, the city in which he was born.  You can get his book at Amazon or from Barnes and Noble, but I’ll be happy to order an autographed copy for you, directly from Conrad.  Just ask.  mh


Adolph and Me

Originally Published in Flourishing August/September 2011

About a year ago, I wrote an article for this newsletter about the 45th reunion of my high school graduating class.  In that article I mentioned that, during my high school days, I’d worked for A. A. (Adolph) Reisig,  “…but that’s a story for another day.”  Well, that day has finally arrived.

I don’t know what made me think of Adolph again just now, any more than I can excuse the fact that I haven’t seen him since 1996, when we were both in Russell to witness Bob Dole’s announcement of his vice-presidential running mate.  We had spotted each other onMain Street, and the first thing he wanted to know, “What business are you in now?”  That was sooooo Adolph!

I told him, and he replied, “You know I have some investments, too.” 

“Yes,” I said, “I do know that.  You were the first person who ever talked to me about the market.” 

“Well, how are you doing?” he asked, but before I could answer, the national media had spotted him, and I slipped back into the crowd.  I never saw him again.

I was fourteen years old, when Adolph first knocked on our door.  He and his family lived just a few houses down the street, and he’d come to ask my dad, if I might like to earn some money that drizzly spring day; and my dad assured him that I would.  So, I climbed into Adolph’s pick-up, an aging but well-maintained Dodge, proudly emblazoned with the name A. A. Reisig Oil Co.  Among his many small-business enterprises, Adolph owned the local Texaco Bulk Plant.  He distributed gasoline, diesel fuel, motor oil, kerosene, anti-freeze, and dozens of other products to the farms, ranches, and Texaco service stations in and around Hays,Kansas.  He also provided and maintained both underground and above ground storage tanks.

So, that first Saturday on the job, my assigned task was to climb down a ladder into a mud pit—I’d guess that it was about twelve feet deep—to wrap a chain around a ten thousand gallon gasoline storage tank.  For $1.25 an hour (and my dad’s approval), I would have done almost anything, and compared to some things I’d done, this was a walk in the park.  The reason I had the job, incidentally, was simply that I was the skinniest kid—if you can believe it—that Adolph could think of that day.  Despite the wet weather and the dirty job, I had some fun and made some money.  I wasn’t too proud to ask Adolph if he had anything else I could do.

That was the first day.  Over the next three years, always for $1.25 an hour, I wrapped a lot of chains around a lot of tanks for Adolph.  I unloaded boxcars filled with 55 gallon drums of bulk oil products and anti-freeze, and thousands of cases of motor oil.  I delivered them to Adolph’s warehouse on a flat bed winch truck and unloaded them, using a small hydraulic lifting platform.  You might think that a skinny teenager can’t or shouldn’t do that kind of work alone, but I could and I did. I developed a strong sense of pride in my work, too.

I scraped and brushed old paint and rust from pipelines and tanks, and repainted them.  I painted warehouse floors and mended fences. I filled delivery trucks with gasoline from overhead storage tanks. 

Adolph was a sportsman, so, on the land that’s now home to the Ramada Inn of Hays, I launched clay targets, so he and his daughter could practice their shooting skills.  When you’re being paid, you don’t get to shoot.  But, I just thought I was a lucky kid to have a dad who knew Adolph, and to have a job that paid so well; and, of course, I was.

Did I mention that Adolph was virtually deaf?  Well, he was, and that made him hard to talk to; not that I had much to say.  What the heck did I know?—about anything?  So, I listened a lot.  Adolph was my dad’s friend, and I learned that he was also a good customer of the lumber yard my dad managed.  I learned that he had a collection of mid-range rental properties, and I painted most of them before my time was up.  He owned a couple of aging motels. With Hays being equidistant fromKansas CityandDenveron Highway 40 (and later on I-70), they each provided him an agreeable income.  Adolph had started his business career with a one-man auto body shop, but it had been closed long before.  I never asked why.

I’m sure that Adolph thought of himself as my mentor.  He told a lot of stories—the kind a kid’s expected to take a lesson from—but there were two things in his life of which he seemed especially proud.

First, he was a lifelong friend of Bob Dole, who had by then become a U.S. Congressman.  They had grown up together in Russell, and Adolph had been instrumental in helping his friend recover from war injuries.  He had also helped raise money to pay for Dole’s reconstructive surgeries.  In fact, that’s how Adolph and my dad had become friends:  In the late 1940’s, cigar boxes stood ceremoniously on the counters of businesses throughout Russell.  In effect, they were collection plates to help Dole and, doubtless, many other young men, who had come home from the war with serious injuries.  

Adolph was about thirty-eight years old when I went to work for him,  and I remember how very proud he was, when he earned his business degree from Fort Hays State University in 1961. That degree meant a lot to him, but I had no idea why.  I wonder, now, at how little I knew about Adolph.

Fifty years later, when I finally was curious enough to google “Adolph Reisig”,  here’s what I learned:  Adolph was born in Russell, Kansasin 1923, and graduated from RussellHigh Schoolin May of 1941.  Two days after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.  As a nineteen year old member of the First Marine Division, he went ashore on Guadalcanalon August 7, 1942, where he served under Lt. Ray Davis. (Lt. Davis was later awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his service inKorea during the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, and he eventually achieved the rank of General.) 

While defending Henderson Field onGuadalcanal, Adolph was wounded numerous times, and suffered the permanent loss of his hearing.  He was evacuated to hospitals inAustralia, until he could be safely transferred to theOaklandNavalHospital, where he spent eleven months, recovering from his injuries.

Back home on the packed-sand prairie of westernKansas, Adolph soon became a successful businessman; which I already knew, of course, and that would have been more than enough for him to have an impact on his community.  But, he also co-founded the Ft. Hays Historical Society, and served for many years as Executive Director of the Ft. Hays State University Endowment Association.  He co-founded the Butterfield Trail Antique Auto Club, and he was active in theMethodistChurch, Lions Club, VFW, Toastmasters, American Legion, the First Marine Division and the Marine Corps League.  With a group called the Rooftop Riders, he made an annual horseback crossing of the Great Divide.

Adolph Alexander Reisig died three years ago, on Saturday, September 27, 2008.  Typically, I didn’t know.  And now, when I finally do know that I’ll never again listen to his queries and admonitions, I miss him.  mh

Recommended Reading

Originally Published in eFlourishing Issue 8, March 16, 2010

Michel Grandin was ten years old when he saw the plane go down on June 10, 1944. It had been strafing a German convoy, when the pilot apparently misjudged the height of an approaching tree line – one of those infamous and ancient hedgerows of Normandy.

 Michel’s father forbade him to run to the crash site, though he, a local carpenter, and the village priest did so. While these French patriots waited in the nearby woods, German soldiers policed the scene of the crash, taking the pilot’s identification and a few pieces of the wreckage of ConJon IV, a magnificent, scarlet-nosed P-51 aircraft. Later that night, Michel’s father and the priest recovered and took care of the pilot’s body, prepared a casket, and held a private funeral service. They buried Conrad J – the only name they knew to give him – in their church cemetery.

Katherine Henderson was born in 1923. She graduated from the most beautiful high school in the nation (according to Life Magazine) in 1940. She married Conrad John Netting, III in 1943. Within a year of the wedding, Katherine was a widow. Her only child, Conrad Netting, IV was born in San Antonio, Texas just one month after his father died in France.

That’s about all I can write through damp eyes. You’ll have to read Delayed Legacy* by Conrad John Netting, IV – and I sincerely hope you will. In it you will meet the most generous and elegant people of Saint-Michel-des-Andaines, and of San Antonio, Texas, too.

*Delayed Legacy, Conrad John Netting, IV, Maverick Publishing, San Antonio, 2005.