The Regenerative American Fabric

If ever there was an occasion to celebrate a life well-lived, it was when John Walbert passed away in the early hours of July 1, 2005. While traditions of the Irish wake have changed and perhaps even mellowed over time, friends and family of the Walberts traveled from near and far to share in the sorrow of those left behind, to celebrate John’s life, and to reaffirm faith in the life ahead. The funeral service at Saint John’s Episcopal Parish was packed to overflowing with people whose lives John had touched, and the graveside service at Deep Creek Cemetery was attended by an even larger crowd. Conditions on that July afternoon were as beautiful as Montana offers. In the warm breeze, Mount Baldy, with its blue-timbered slopes and snow-covered peaks, rose up from the brown foothills and towered supreme over the Deep Creek Valley. On this day, one could certainly feel the presence of the Lord and imagine the chorus of angels welcoming John home. On November 25, 1924, John Walbert was the sixth of seven children born to Irish immigrants on the family homestead outside Townsend, Montana, in the shadow of the Big Belt Mountains. Like most children born shortly before the Great Depression, much of John’s childhood lacked what today we consider the most rudimentary creature comforts, such as running water, indoor plumbing, and electricity. His father expected him to work hard on the family farm and spend any extra time on the studies handed out initially by the schoolmarm at the nearby one-room schoolhouse and, later, by the high school officials in the nearby town. When John attended high school, he would leave the farm on Sunday afternoon and stay with family in town through Friday afternoon. The seventeen-mile drive from the farm to town was simply too far and too expensive to travel each day. While in high school, John’s father had little tolerance for extracurricular athletics and felt that such programs were intended solely for kids who lived in town and had nothing better to do with their time. Despite being a standout athlete and three-sport varsity letterman, John’s father seldom attended any of his son’s athletic events. Perhaps the fulcrum point in John’s life occurred on December 7, 1941, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and thrust the United States headlong into World War II. Over the years, John would recall that he clearly remembered that fateful day. He and his older brother Brent had been out feeding cattle in their horse-drawn sled. The ground was frozen solid, and the wind blowing off the snow-packed slopes of the Big Belt Mountains was biting. As John and Brent removed their heavy clothes and attempted to shake off the cold in the warm kitchen of their small farm house, the boys’ mother Kathleen told them what she had heard on the radio. From the frozen Montana foothills, John and his brother responded in a fashion true to their Irish heritage—their blood boiled. On December 8, John was ready to drop out of high school, leave the family farm, and head off to the Pacific to fight the Japanese aggressors. The only thing holding John back was his father, who refused to give John his blessing in joining the military before he successfully completed high school. Chaffing within this restraint, John begrudgingly finished high school. But immediately after graduation in May 1941, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and was on his way to basic training.