How many times in our lives do we meet someone new and ignore the chance to find out about them?
I’m guilty.
I can recall times when I was simply not interested, or distracted or so busy I only wanted to shake hands and move on.
There was even a time in my life when I thought “I already have enough friends. I don’t have time for any more.”
So many missed opportunities. So many amazing people in this world, each unique and special and each with their own rare story to tell.
My high school reunion a month ago is a good example. I met someone who reminded me that it is important to look, listen and hear another person when you meet them. You just might find a gem and a reminder of the things you love.
A childhood friend approached me after our dinner banquet ended and said “hey, you need to meet this man because I think you’d be interested in him!”
The man’s name is Keith Kappelmann and by the end of our short visit I was compelled to return to my hotel room, mid-reunion, so I could write down every detail of our exchange.
Keith graduated from White City High School in 1944, two years after my Grandmother Mary Jean Harmison. She passed away six years ago and I have felt the loss deeply. This man knew her, remembered her.
Keith’s sister Jean was also with him and she graduated in 1949 with my late Great Aunt Naomi Harmison. White City is a very small town and people from this generation are disappearing rapidly.
The first thing I did after returning home that weekend was to dig out my Grandmother’s 1942 year book. It is thin, paper, tattered and yellowed but I have loved looking at since moving in with my grandparents at the age of six. I know each page, recognize the names of her 17 class members. I would lie on the floor in our dining room and pour over the pages. Harlow Warneke, class Vice-President, seemed so handsome to me. Thelma Pretzer, class Secretary Treasurer, must have been smart, at least in my young mind.
I always thought my grandmother was the prettiest in her class and I could pick her out of every group photo.
Somehow, though, in those same group photos, I had missed a tall sophomore named Keith Kappelmann.
Keith told me that he remembered my Grandmother, that she had been sweet and kind. I knew this but it was wonderful hearing it from someone who had known her in her youth.
This little connection was only that, though. Little.
Keith and I had far more in common.
You see, Keith was tall for that time. 6’5 in fact. And he played basketball.
He planned to attend the University of Kansas and maybe, just maybe, play basketball under Phog Allen. Unfortunately, World War II was raging and like the rest of his generation Keith entered the military.
Yes, another connection.
Keith joined the United States Army and served in the Battle of Okinawa.
For those of you who know my own story, Okinawa is a very poignant place to my family. Keith served there at the same time as my Grandfather Delbert. Keith told me he spent most of his time on Okinawa helping with the supply chain on the Yontan airbase. My grandfather would’ve been further south at the same time, in heavy combat prior to losing his arm during the battle for Dakeshi Ridge.
Two Morris County boys, halfway around the world, fighting for their country on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.
I wonder if their paths ever crossed. If the jeep carrying my grandfather’s battered and injured body maybe passed by Keith as he was walking on the air base. So physically close, both knowing the same blue eyed girl, and yet so far away at the same time.
I’m sure I may have appeared a little odd and eager to Mr. Kappelmann, who is now in his nineties. In a ballroom filled with people a 46 year old woman was peppering him with questions, intent and focused. Of course he downplayed his time in the service, saying he didn’t do “much”, just helped on the airbase. Only I know what happened on the Island of Okinawa in 1945, to our own servicemen, to the Japanese soldiers and, most important, to the natives. It was a violent and turbulent place with many victims and nightmares.
When Mr. Kappelmann returned to Kansas he chose the same path as my grandfather. They both entered the University of Kansas in the fall of 1946 under the GI Bill. In addition to combing through my grandmother’s high school year book, I also dug through a University of Kansas 1946 year book, picked up several years ago in a KU vintage shopping expedition. I had never explored the KU album as deeply as I have in the following weeks since meeting Mr. Kappelmann and it has been a fascinating journey. In the fall of 1946, according to one of the year book articles, there were 370 veterans enrolled at KU. Mr. Kappelmann and my grandfather would have been two of them. By the spring, the number of veterans would be well over a thousand.
By that same fall of ‘46, Delbert was a married father, trying to juggle husband and father duties while completing homework using a single, non-dominant hand. The disability presented struggles, although to use that word could invoke his wrath.
Keith was single and, in piecing together what I can from our short chat, tried to resume his original course before the war created a detour.
Which involved Jayhawk Basketball.
Talk about yanking the proverbial “Marlys chain”. My grandmother…White City High School circa 1940’s…World War II Okinawa…KU basketball. We would be soul mates if only the same age and single.
I tried to contain myself while talking to Mr. Kappelmann. It was apparent that his small group was heading home from the reunion when we were introduced and I didn’t want to delay them. But curiosity was obnoxiously roaring in my head, creeping from my tongue.
The basketball story is short. There was roster space for 20 players and Keith was the 21st player, meaning he could still practice with the squad without suiting up. But he was a different man after the war, as was an entire generation.
He mentioned Charlie Black and Otto Schnellbacher; seemed impressed that I knew who these men were. He talked about the break the war caused and how the top tier players had been able to play while over seas, leaving them more like professionals after they returned. Players who hadn’t seen a basketball court during their time in the military had lost valuable time and seemed remedial next to the All-Americans.
The old veteran and KU alum was honest and forthright. He said that during one particular practice Phog Allen was pushing him to perform a particular spin move the correct way. The famed coach told Keith he wanted it perfected by the next day.
Keith told me he thought to himself “you know, I don’t really need this job.” So he left the team and continued moving forward with a free education (the word “free” somehow doesn’t seem quite appropriate now, does it).
I immediately thought to myself “no wonder - you had just been through war and this must’ve seemed so trivial, so minor; now that you had the financial support through the GI Bill to pay for an education I can’t say that I blame you.”
He talked about dunking and the fact that it was a fairly new phenomena and one which Phog Allen deeply disagreed. The players who were able to dunk would wait until Phog left the gym and then they would take every opportunity to dunk. The price, if caught, was high because Phog would bench the offenders during the next game.
Standing next to Keith was Jean’s husband. He was a Lawrence High School graduate, Class of ’49, and, like his brother-in-law Keith, had stories to share.
He said as a kid he managed a paper route which went right by Phog Allen’s home and he would often see Phog out walking. In 1938 his Boy Scout troop watched a game in Hoch Auditorium. It was so crowded students had to sit on the stage.
What was absolutely fascinating to me was the way they all still seemed to remember small details, like purchasing tickets to half of the basketball and football games for $20 during a time when only a fraction of the student body could even fit into Hoch Auditorium.
Keith’s brother-in-law recalled a time when Phog would actually address the young men who were registering for selective service, giving them a patriotic pep talk, if you will.
The conversation eventually drifted to Dick Harp and Phog’s retirement. Although Keith hasn’t seen the new movie, staring Justin Wesley, he says there was a law at the time that required Phog to retire at a certain age. But he gives credit to Coach Dick Harp, Allen’s predecessor, for ushering in an era of African American acceptance onto the court during a time when the country was extremely segregated.
Politeness required that I eventually allow them to continue heading towards the door but Mr. Kappelmann shared one last bit of information about himself. After college he joined the Air Force instead of reenlisting in the Army and served in the Korean War.
And although I was feeling guilty for holding them up and pressing them with questions, he relieved my guilt by telling me that meeting me and seeing my interest in him was the best part of the two reunions he had attended. They told me it was nice meeting a member of the Harmison Clan.
It was a brief meeting, a passing if you will. But I’ve continued to think about all three of them because they are from a generation that we are losing by the day, by the hour. Certainly, meeting someone who was coached by Phog Allen was a genuine pleasure. Hearing stories of Hoch Auditorium and Phog’s disdain for the slam dunk was, in the vernacular, awesome.
I was more honored, though, to meet a World War II Veteran, someone who had served on the same island at the same time as my grandfather. And though Mr. Kappelmann and every other member of The Greatest Generation will tell you “I was nothing, I did nothing, the others were heroes”, many of us recognize that this isn’t true at all. Every one of them contributed and was part of a unity and a commitment to putting our country, our freedom and our way of life before all else.
I’m documenting this to thank him for his service and for sharing a little of himself with a stranger. It meant more to me than he could know and for just a brief moment I could imagine him as a young man walking the halls of White City High School with a beautiful young blue eyed girl named Mary Jean Harmison.
Make sure to talk to people. You never know if their story may speak to you.
Update 11/09/2015:
I received notice today that Mr. Kappelmann passed away on October 31. Having lost my own grandparents, I can honestly say it is a bittersweet thing when such a unique and special member of this generation leaves us. What an amazing life he lived and what a humble gift it was to have met him so soon before he left his family and friends. Obituary linked here.
