U.S. Army Sgt. Jeremiah Dee exhibited bravery as he dodged deadly explosives to reach downed Black Hawk helicopters during the Iraq War. Courage again sustained the young North Texas veteran when, nearing a mental breakdown, he sought help for combat-induced PTSD.
Jeremiah's most heroic action was his decision this year to respond to the call for help from another veteran's 88-year-old widow.
Fifty years ago, Bonnye Sherman's husband, Wayne, created a one-of-a-kind front door for their Farmers Branch home. The intricate woodworking project provided healing and therapy for the U.S. Marine and Vietnam War veteran.
The mosaic was constructed of bits of pine and oak, ornate trim pieces and sap-filled cross-sections of newly cut trees. The wooden shapes were lumber yard scraps, and Wayne used them in their original form. Forming a jigsaw puzzle of sorts, the mural of cutouts suggests abstract flowers, birds, fish and seashells.
As Wayne aged and fell into poor health, his work withered, succumbing to decay, grime and one bad attempt to repair the damage by covering the door with black paint. Bonnye cringed each time she passed through the once-magnificent door, but, until Wayne's death in 2018, her hands were full, caring for her husband.
Once her search for a restorer began, Bonnye could find no one interested in the complicated assignment. The job would require scraping and sanding the paint and grime off the door, the wooden pieces and the countless nooks and crannies around them -- without damaging the aging shapes. Once the door was stripped down to the original wood, repairs would be required on many of the elements. Finally, the door would need to be restained and sealed.
Bonnye had almost given up finding someone when she got a fortuitous tip from a friend at the George W. Bush Presidential Library, where she volunteers as a docent.
The friend had a photo of an old but lovingly refurbished bench, the work of a 47-year-old man from Justin, about 35 miles from Farmers Branch. One look and Bonnye knew she had found the perfect craftsman.
Little did she know this work would be as great a healing balm for Jeremiah as it was for Wayne.
'Life Challenges You'
Bonnye had to wait five years before Jeremiah committed to the project. Family, church activities and medical appointments occupied most of his time. Anxiety and depression made any commitment difficult -- especially one this far outside his comfort zone. Then the pandemic got in the way.
When Bonnye called early this year, Jeremiah agreed to come take a look at the door. He felt bad about putting her off so many times and coached himself on pushing through the stress the initial meeting would create.
"She was a sweet woman and this project meant the world to her," Jeremiah recalled. "But I had no idea what I was getting myself into."
Over the phone, Jeremiah had estimated he could probably get the job done in two days. "I tried to play it cool when I showed up," he said, "but inside I wondered, 'How in the world can I restore this?'"
At the end of the first day of work in April -- after hours of what he said was "blood, sweat and tears" to undo the damage and black paint -- Jeremiah had completed one 12-inch-by-12-inch section.
Bonnye couldn't sleep that night amid worries Jeremiah wouldn't return. She had nothing to fear.
"Our lives sometimes can be like that nasty door," Jeremiah recalled. "Life challenges you and, with work, you can get to where you want to go."
'I'm a Marine'
Wayne, Bonnye's husband of 59 years, was passionate about many pursuits. He flew for Delta for 30 years. He hunted and fished across the U.S., providing wild turkeys for the Thanksgiving tables of family and friends. He owned one of the first World War II-inspired Ford SUVs, earning him the nickname "Bronco" in the mid-1960s.
When he met someone new, he never mentioned any of that.
"I'm a Marine" was the introduction preferred by Wayne, who died at 81 after a valiant struggle with Alzheimer's.
Wayne joined the U.S. Marine Corps in 1958 and became a flight officer and instructor. He and Bonnye married four months after they met in 1959 while he was in flight training in Pensacola, Fla. "It was a quick romance -- but it just worked out," Bonnye said.
Wayne didn't waver from the Marine Corps values of honor, courage and commitment, but his fortitude was tested in his last Vietnam assignment. For several years, his KC-130 aircraft crew regularly ferried supplies into the war zone and soldiers' bodies back to the U.S.
"Over time, that just tore him up," Bonnye recalled. "He remained steadfast but it was so very hard."
Wayne, like so many who serve, packed his emotions away and did his duty. He retired with the rank of captain in 1966 and the next year became a Delta Air Lines pilot based at Dallas' Love Field.
He and Bonnye built their dream home on what was then the rolling prairie of Farmers Branch, worlds away from Dallas. A huge horse farm occupied what is now the Spring Valley Road corridor and Belt Line Road was planted with miles of cotton.
Wayne, Bonnye and their young daughter made a happy-go-lucky life for themselves, narrated by Wayne's gift of story-telling. Life was good until a deadly tragedy broke open years of grief Wayne had steeled his heart against since Vietnam.
In 1974, Fred Jones, Wayne's best friend and fellow Vietnam veteran and Delta pilot, was shot and killed during an attempted hijacking in Baltimore. Fred was based in Dallas and the Sherman and Jones families had been close.
While Bonnye supported Fred's widow, who had given birth to twins a month or so before he died, Wayne took a leave from Delta and tried to deal with his misery. As part of his therapy, he turned to artwork -- just as he had as a child when he suffered from polio.
Using a flat front door as his canvas, Wayne adorned it with a maze of wooden pieces he found in cast-off remnant piles at lumber yards.
Once he had the pieces set to his liking, he burnished the design with a light-catching stain and surprised Bonnye. For weeks, she had been unsure what Wayne was working on. But she knew the project was slowly easing his mind.
"Wayne was a very sensitive man, just like Jeremiah is," Bonnye said. "It's one of the many ways they are alike and why this door's redoing by Jeremiah was meant to be."
A Soldier Called to Serve
Jeremiah grew up in Pittsburgh, Pa., and after several moves, wound up in Flower Mound, where he attended Marcus High School his senior year.
A "work with my hands" kind of guy, Jeremiah dropped the news on his mother he planned to join the Army. "I just felt that was my calling," he said.
He did basic training in Fort Jackson, S.C., and his specialty became maintenance on Black Hawk helicopters. He married while stationed in Panama and, with his wife's blessings, he signed up for a second tour of duty.
Days later, the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks on the U.S. changed everything.
Jeremiah was sent to Iraq as part of the initial invasion, a member of the advance teams that worked on Black Hawks. The enemy's increased use of improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, haunted Jeremiah and his crewmates.
"It would weigh on us -- they were everywhere -- as we drove out in three-vehicle convoys to do repairs," he recalled. "You just tried to keep working but it was hard."
Jeremiah's job included the recovery of equipment and bodies from downed aircraft. On Nov. 15, 2003, two Black Hawk helicopters collided and crashed in Mosul, killing 17 U.S. soldiers. One of them smashed into the roof of a house, and Jeremiah was assigned to that site.
"We had to separate the aircraft," Jeremiah said, "get all the pieces up and help with the body recovery."
The Mosul crash was one of several that month. A Chinook transport helicopter accident Nov. 2 killed 16 soldiers and a Black Hawk was shot down Nov. 7 in Tikrit, killing all six on board.
Jeremiah knew many of the guys on those helicopters. He had worked next to some and gone through training with others.
"It felt like a lot of snowballing of events," Jeremiah told me, struggling to find the words. "The amount of stuff seen there -- you had to be there to understand."
Not long after the recovery work, a soldier working atop a tall structure at Jeremiah's tent site slipped and fell. His full weight hit Jeremiah, who suffered upper back, neck and head injuries.
Jeremiah was never the same. "Previously I was Johnny-on-the-spot, having everything done," he said, "but not after that. The mental and physical toll was too much."
Discharged in July 2005 with a disabling injury, Jeremiah returned home to his wife and children. In a good but high-stress job at Bell in Fort Worth, where he oversaw the rewiring of Black Hawks, he refused to get help for his increasing emotional instability.
"I felt like I could 'workaholic' my way out of my problems."
Only when he was close to a breakdown did he get his priorities in order. He credits the Dallas and Waco VA medical centers for helping him turn the corner on his PTSD, depression and anxiety. "Divine help was part of it, too, or I wouldn't be here today," he said.
Married for 26 years to Jessie and with three daughters and two grandchildren, Jeremiah focuses on family and church. "I do a little woodworking when I feel up to it," he said. "It's not a business, just something to be creative and get the mind engaged."
Stepping into places of uncertainty is hard for Jeremiah, but after a visit to the Dallas VA last spring, he decided it was time to tackle Bonnye's door.
Looking back, "There were a lot of hands around us guiding us into making this happen," he said.
The Beauty and Craftsmanship
By Jeremiah's third day on the job, Bonnye exhaled. She could tell the door had grabbed his interest.
Bit by bit, Jeremiah cleaned the mosaic. "I felt a lot of, 'Oh my gosh, panic' at first but I would chunk off a tiny piece of the work -- and focus on nothing more," he laughed.Jeremiah acknowledged saying many prayers involving St. Joseph as he toiled.
Each day revealed more of the beauty and craftsmanship of the original.
Jeremiah sensed the care Wayne put into the placement of each wooden shape. He felt the Marine's effort "to pull out all those emotions and compartmentalization of tragedies and put them on that door."
The finishing touch was selecting a stain as close to the one Wayne chose. Now the light of the wood grains shines through, protected from the elements by a new sealant.
Jeremiah said restoring the door renewed his spirit, much as creating it revived Wayne's.
When the door was finished three weeks later, Jeremiah called his father to help him rehang it. "That was a very special moment," Jeremiah recalled. "He couldn't believe how it came together so magnificently."
Bonnye insisted on paying Jeremiah, who originally quoted her about $500. If he had his way, he wouldn't take any money. "To push through it and restore it was a gift to me," Jeremiah said.
On Veteran's Day, Jeremiah will check up on friends he made in the Army via text. Bonnye will visit the Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery, where her late husband is interred. "I'll take my McDonald's and a good cup of coffee and eat breakfast there with him," she laughed.
Although Bonnye already senses how happy Wayne is about the new door, she plans to tell him all about Jeremiah and the restoration project.
"I'll say, 'It's even better than the original because it has so much new love in it."
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