Son of Thomas Bow Brighton and Mary Pickering
Married Florence Elizabeth Thody, 8 June 1935, Chicago, Cook, Illinois
Christmas Lines to a Hero by Patricia Brighton Rust
It was Saturday, October 15, 1932, when the telegram arrived. “Your son Kenneth badly burned. Cannot yet tell how serious. He asks that you come at once. Inform me of train so that I can telegraph you."
The young graduate student in chemistry lay critically burned in Union Memorial Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. While he had been performing an experiment, the chemical solution exploded, igniting his clothing into a mass of flames and burning him from head to toe.
He was a living torch for a minute. Fellow students pushed him under the safety shower, but the force of the pull broke the chain, losing precious minutes before the flames could be extinguished. He was then rushed to the closest hospital.
His father left Salt Lake City that afternoon by plane, arriving on Monday morning to be at his son's bedside. His mother and sweetheart followed by train.
Meanwhile the youth hovered between life and death as doctors and nurses ministered round the clock to save his life with intravenous feedings and blood transfusions. After a week of agonizingly long days, the doctors confirmed to the family that they thought---barring complications---he would live. After another week, his father and sweetheart returned home to their work and studies, leaving his mother at Kenneth's bedside.
The next crisis involved his vision. Instinctively the young man had covered his eyes with his hands, but had he protected them soon enough? For months his eyes remained bandaged. Finally, the moment came to remove the bandages. Yes, he could see---but he would need plastic surgery to reconstruct eyelids so that his eyes would close.
The next hurdle he faced was getting off the morphine that had been used liberally to ease the terrific pain. With true courage, he bravely stretched out the hours between doses.
Of course the young man still faced a long hospital stay. Many months would be needed for skin grafts and re-constructive plastic surgery so that his face would have a more normal appearance and he would have sufficient ear tissue to hold his glasses. Naturally, this left hours for him to think about his plight.
What would become of him? What about his four-year all expenses paid fellowship to study for his Ph.D.? What about his sweetheart? Could she still love a badly scarred and disfigured man with hands burned bent and deformed? After all, hadn’t the doctors been extremely careful not to allow a mirror in his room? Even though he still had his fine mind, would he ever be able to get a really good job where he had to interact with the public?
In spite of such weighty questions, twenty-year-old Kenneth usually remained cheerful and expressed appreciation to all who helped and served him. However, a most devastating moment occurred when he first saw himself in a mirror. Shocked by the drastic change, he was in tears and asked Dr. Davis, “Why didn’t you let me die?” Rather than allow him to languish in self-pity, the very wise and sensitive doctor responded in a way which turned Ken’s thoughts outward to others. “Doctors and nurses have worked day and night to save your life. Now it’s time for you to show some gratitude.”
Kenneth did develop a courageous acceptance of his situation and was admired by many around him. One of these was Albert Genter, a Baltimore resident who had met Ken as a bellhop at Bryce Canyon prior to his studies at Hopkins. Mr. Genter visited him daily---and multiple times on days when Ken had surgery. In a letter to Ken’s father he wrote, “As I was leaving the hospital the other night, I met Dr. Davis and remarked to him that Ken was looking and doing fine. He smiled all over and said, ‘That boy can’t do anything else. He is a marvel! He comes up smiling every time. He ought to be an inspiration to any thinking person.'’
As the weeks passed, Kenneth underwent surgery after surgery after surgery, progressing slowly, his Mother cheering him on. Word came that his scholarship would be extended and that he could continue his studies the following school year.
During the Christmas season, a myriad of cards brightened the young man’s room. On Christmas day, hidden among a mass of small gifts, a nurse discovered a special delivery letter, postmarked New York---and opened it, Kenneth not being able to use either hand yet. Out dropped a crisp $500 bill and a poem addressed to the bravest boy I ever knew, “Christmas Lines to a Hero.”
Merry Christmas, Kenneth Brighton, and a Happy New Year, too.
To the bravest, gamiest, fighting lad, of whom I ever knew.
Please accept this Christmas token as a tribute to your grit
And as you use it, now and then, may it ease your mind a bit.
You know, on your arrival, lad, your chances seemed quite slim
But now the New Year’s close at hand, you know you’re bound to win.
You know the days seemed endless, then---you know the nights seemed long
But nature does not hurry: it takes time to make you strong.
At first, you know, the clouds hung low and hid the sun from view
But silvery lines are round them now---See! the sun is peeping through:
Though thirty-two has seared your flesh and raced your limbs with pain
Thirty-three will atone for this and make you new again.
It’s a glad day for your Doctors, boy---those men of wondrous skill.
Who have worked so hard to pull you through, assisted by your will
And also for your Nurses, lad, those Nightingales in white.
Think how they hovered o’er your cot and watched you day and night.
And for your loving Mother---think how she sought to hide her fears
As she bravely smiled and cheered you on, while choking back her tears.
And for your Dad, think of him, my lad---although so far away---
How he has sacrificed and scrimped, that you, your bills may pay.
It’s a glad day, too, for your college pals---for your classmates one and all,
Think how hard they’ve tried to cheer you up every time they made a call
How they’ve stood upon the side-lines, how they’ve followed every play
Cheering you on to Victory as you slowly made your way.
They are rooting for you strong, today---can’t you hear the Hopkins yell?
It’s their way of Christmas caroling their hopes you’ll soon be well.
So make this a Merry Christmas---carry on and carry through---
And the same old pep that served you well, will make you good as new.
I’m an utter stranger, Kenneth, you will never know my name,
And you’ll never find it chiseled in any Hall of Fame,
I’m just a plain old duffer, lad, who, too, has suffered pain.
Who’s now ambling in the twilight, down the pathway of Life’s Lane.
So please forgive me, Kenneth, if my identity I hide
Just think of me, in spirit, saying “cheer-i-o” at your side
And put me in your Memory Book---though I know it will sound odd---
As one of those who, now and then, take fun in “playing God.”
Kenneth Brighton married his sweetheart, completed his Ph.D., reared a family, served his church and rose to Vice-President of Research and Development for the American Can Company. He died March 4, 1984 in Durham, North Carolina, never knowing the identity of the magnanimous donor of $500 (worth at least $5,000 today).
Married Florence Elizabeth Thody, 8 June 1935, Chicago, Cook, Illinois
Christmas Lines to a Hero by Patricia Brighton Rust
It was Saturday, October 15, 1932, when the telegram arrived. “Your son Kenneth badly burned. Cannot yet tell how serious. He asks that you come at once. Inform me of train so that I can telegraph you."
The young graduate student in chemistry lay critically burned in Union Memorial Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. While he had been performing an experiment, the chemical solution exploded, igniting his clothing into a mass of flames and burning him from head to toe.
He was a living torch for a minute. Fellow students pushed him under the safety shower, but the force of the pull broke the chain, losing precious minutes before the flames could be extinguished. He was then rushed to the closest hospital.
His father left Salt Lake City that afternoon by plane, arriving on Monday morning to be at his son's bedside. His mother and sweetheart followed by train.
Meanwhile the youth hovered between life and death as doctors and nurses ministered round the clock to save his life with intravenous feedings and blood transfusions. After a week of agonizingly long days, the doctors confirmed to the family that they thought---barring complications---he would live. After another week, his father and sweetheart returned home to their work and studies, leaving his mother at Kenneth's bedside.
The next crisis involved his vision. Instinctively the young man had covered his eyes with his hands, but had he protected them soon enough? For months his eyes remained bandaged. Finally, the moment came to remove the bandages. Yes, he could see---but he would need plastic surgery to reconstruct eyelids so that his eyes would close.
The next hurdle he faced was getting off the morphine that had been used liberally to ease the terrific pain. With true courage, he bravely stretched out the hours between doses.
Of course the young man still faced a long hospital stay. Many months would be needed for skin grafts and re-constructive plastic surgery so that his face would have a more normal appearance and he would have sufficient ear tissue to hold his glasses. Naturally, this left hours for him to think about his plight.
What would become of him? What about his four-year all expenses paid fellowship to study for his Ph.D.? What about his sweetheart? Could she still love a badly scarred and disfigured man with hands burned bent and deformed? After all, hadn’t the doctors been extremely careful not to allow a mirror in his room? Even though he still had his fine mind, would he ever be able to get a really good job where he had to interact with the public?
In spite of such weighty questions, twenty-year-old Kenneth usually remained cheerful and expressed appreciation to all who helped and served him. However, a most devastating moment occurred when he first saw himself in a mirror. Shocked by the drastic change, he was in tears and asked Dr. Davis, “Why didn’t you let me die?” Rather than allow him to languish in self-pity, the very wise and sensitive doctor responded in a way which turned Ken’s thoughts outward to others. “Doctors and nurses have worked day and night to save your life. Now it’s time for you to show some gratitude.”
Kenneth did develop a courageous acceptance of his situation and was admired by many around him. One of these was Albert Genter, a Baltimore resident who had met Ken as a bellhop at Bryce Canyon prior to his studies at Hopkins. Mr. Genter visited him daily---and multiple times on days when Ken had surgery. In a letter to Ken’s father he wrote, “As I was leaving the hospital the other night, I met Dr. Davis and remarked to him that Ken was looking and doing fine. He smiled all over and said, ‘That boy can’t do anything else. He is a marvel! He comes up smiling every time. He ought to be an inspiration to any thinking person.'’
As the weeks passed, Kenneth underwent surgery after surgery after surgery, progressing slowly, his Mother cheering him on. Word came that his scholarship would be extended and that he could continue his studies the following school year.
During the Christmas season, a myriad of cards brightened the young man’s room. On Christmas day, hidden among a mass of small gifts, a nurse discovered a special delivery letter, postmarked New York---and opened it, Kenneth not being able to use either hand yet. Out dropped a crisp $500 bill and a poem addressed to the bravest boy I ever knew, “Christmas Lines to a Hero.”
Merry Christmas, Kenneth Brighton, and a Happy New Year, too.
To the bravest, gamiest, fighting lad, of whom I ever knew.
Please accept this Christmas token as a tribute to your grit
And as you use it, now and then, may it ease your mind a bit.
You know, on your arrival, lad, your chances seemed quite slim
But now the New Year’s close at hand, you know you’re bound to win.
You know the days seemed endless, then---you know the nights seemed long
But nature does not hurry: it takes time to make you strong.
At first, you know, the clouds hung low and hid the sun from view
But silvery lines are round them now---See! the sun is peeping through:
Though thirty-two has seared your flesh and raced your limbs with pain
Thirty-three will atone for this and make you new again.
It’s a glad day for your Doctors, boy---those men of wondrous skill.
Who have worked so hard to pull you through, assisted by your will
And also for your Nurses, lad, those Nightingales in white.
Think how they hovered o’er your cot and watched you day and night.
And for your loving Mother---think how she sought to hide her fears
As she bravely smiled and cheered you on, while choking back her tears.
And for your Dad, think of him, my lad---although so far away---
How he has sacrificed and scrimped, that you, your bills may pay.
It’s a glad day, too, for your college pals---for your classmates one and all,
Think how hard they’ve tried to cheer you up every time they made a call
How they’ve stood upon the side-lines, how they’ve followed every play
Cheering you on to Victory as you slowly made your way.
They are rooting for you strong, today---can’t you hear the Hopkins yell?
It’s their way of Christmas caroling their hopes you’ll soon be well.
So make this a Merry Christmas---carry on and carry through---
And the same old pep that served you well, will make you good as new.
I’m an utter stranger, Kenneth, you will never know my name,
And you’ll never find it chiseled in any Hall of Fame,
I’m just a plain old duffer, lad, who, too, has suffered pain.
Who’s now ambling in the twilight, down the pathway of Life’s Lane.
So please forgive me, Kenneth, if my identity I hide
Just think of me, in spirit, saying “cheer-i-o” at your side
And put me in your Memory Book---though I know it will sound odd---
As one of those who, now and then, take fun in “playing God.”
Kenneth Brighton married his sweetheart, completed his Ph.D., reared a family, served his church and rose to Vice-President of Research and Development for the American Can Company. He died March 4, 1984 in Durham, North Carolina, never knowing the identity of the magnanimous donor of $500 (worth at least $5,000 today).
Son of Thomas Bow Brighton and Mary Pickering
Married Florence Elizabeth Thody, 8 June 1935, Chicago, Cook, Illinois
Christmas Lines to a Hero by Patricia Brighton Rust
It was Saturday, October 15, 1932, when the telegram arrived. “Your son Kenneth badly burned. Cannot yet tell how serious. He asks that you come at once. Inform me of train so that I can telegraph you."
The young graduate student in chemistry lay critically burned in Union Memorial Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. While he had been performing an experiment, the chemical solution exploded, igniting his clothing into a mass of flames and burning him from head to toe.
He was a living torch for a minute. Fellow students pushed him under the safety shower, but the force of the pull broke the chain, losing precious minutes before the flames could be extinguished. He was then rushed to the closest hospital.
His father left Salt Lake City that afternoon by plane, arriving on Monday morning to be at his son's bedside. His mother and sweetheart followed by train.
Meanwhile the youth hovered between life and death as doctors and nurses ministered round the clock to save his life with intravenous feedings and blood transfusions. After a week of agonizingly long days, the doctors confirmed to the family that they thought---barring complications---he would live. After another week, his father and sweetheart returned home to their work and studies, leaving his mother at Kenneth's bedside.
The next crisis involved his vision. Instinctively the young man had covered his eyes with his hands, but had he protected them soon enough? For months his eyes remained bandaged. Finally, the moment came to remove the bandages. Yes, he could see---but he would need plastic surgery to reconstruct eyelids so that his eyes would close.
The next hurdle he faced was getting off the morphine that had been used liberally to ease the terrific pain. With true courage, he bravely stretched out the hours between doses.
Of course the young man still faced a long hospital stay. Many months would be needed for skin grafts and re-constructive plastic surgery so that his face would have a more normal appearance and he would have sufficient ear tissue to hold his glasses. Naturally, this left hours for him to think about his plight.
What would become of him? What about his four-year all expenses paid fellowship to study for his Ph.D.? What about his sweetheart? Could she still love a badly scarred and disfigured man with hands burned bent and deformed? After all, hadn’t the doctors been extremely careful not to allow a mirror in his room? Even though he still had his fine mind, would he ever be able to get a really good job where he had to interact with the public?
In spite of such weighty questions, twenty-year-old Kenneth usually remained cheerful and expressed appreciation to all who helped and served him. However, a most devastating moment occurred when he first saw himself in a mirror. Shocked by the drastic change, he was in tears and asked Dr. Davis, “Why didn’t you let me die?” Rather than allow him to languish in self-pity, the very wise and sensitive doctor responded in a way which turned Ken’s thoughts outward to others. “Doctors and nurses have worked day and night to save your life. Now it’s time for you to show some gratitude.”
Kenneth did develop a courageous acceptance of his situation and was admired by many around him. One of these was Albert Genter, a Baltimore resident who had met Ken as a bellhop at Bryce Canyon prior to his studies at Hopkins. Mr. Genter visited him daily---and multiple times on days when Ken had surgery. In a letter to Ken’s father he wrote, “As I was leaving the hospital the other night, I met Dr. Davis and remarked to him that Ken was looking and doing fine. He smiled all over and said, ‘That boy can’t do anything else. He is a marvel! He comes up smiling every time. He ought to be an inspiration to any thinking person.'’
As the weeks passed, Kenneth underwent surgery after surgery after surgery, progressing slowly, his Mother cheering him on. Word came that his scholarship would be extended and that he could continue his studies the following school year.
During the Christmas season, a myriad of cards brightened the young man’s room. On Christmas day, hidden among a mass of small gifts, a nurse discovered a special delivery letter, postmarked New York---and opened it, Kenneth not being able to use either hand yet. Out dropped a crisp $500 bill and a poem addressed to the bravest boy I ever knew, “Christmas Lines to a Hero.”
Merry Christmas, Kenneth Brighton, and a Happy New Year, too.
To the bravest, gamiest, fighting lad, of whom I ever knew.
Please accept this Christmas token as a tribute to your grit
And as you use it, now and then, may it ease your mind a bit.
You know, on your arrival, lad, your chances seemed quite slim
But now the New Year’s close at hand, you know you’re bound to win.
You know the days seemed endless, then---you know the nights seemed long
But nature does not hurry: it takes time to make you strong.
At first, you know, the clouds hung low and hid the sun from view
But silvery lines are round them now---See! the sun is peeping through:
Though thirty-two has seared your flesh and raced your limbs with pain
Thirty-three will atone for this and make you new again.
It’s a glad day for your Doctors, boy---those men of wondrous skill.
Who have worked so hard to pull you through, assisted by your will
And also for your Nurses, lad, those Nightingales in white.
Think how they hovered o’er your cot and watched you day and night.
And for your loving Mother---think how she sought to hide her fears
As she bravely smiled and cheered you on, while choking back her tears.
And for your Dad, think of him, my lad---although so far away---
How he has sacrificed and scrimped, that you, your bills may pay.
It’s a glad day, too, for your college pals---for your classmates one and all,
Think how hard they’ve tried to cheer you up every time they made a call
How they’ve stood upon the side-lines, how they’ve followed every play
Cheering you on to Victory as you slowly made your way.
They are rooting for you strong, today---can’t you hear the Hopkins yell?
It’s their way of Christmas caroling their hopes you’ll soon be well.
So make this a Merry Christmas---carry on and carry through---
And the same old pep that served you well, will make you good as new.
I’m an utter stranger, Kenneth, you will never know my name,
And you’ll never find it chiseled in any Hall of Fame,
I’m just a plain old duffer, lad, who, too, has suffered pain.
Who’s now ambling in the twilight, down the pathway of Life’s Lane.
So please forgive me, Kenneth, if my identity I hide
Just think of me, in spirit, saying “cheer-i-o” at your side
And put me in your Memory Book---though I know it will sound odd---
As one of those who, now and then, take fun in “playing God.”
Kenneth Brighton married his sweetheart, completed his Ph.D., reared a family, served his church and rose to Vice-President of Research and Development for the American Can Company. He died March 4, 1984 in Durham, North Carolina, never knowing the identity of the magnanimous donor of $500 (worth at least $5,000 today).
Married Florence Elizabeth Thody, 8 June 1935, Chicago, Cook, Illinois
Christmas Lines to a Hero by Patricia Brighton Rust
It was Saturday, October 15, 1932, when the telegram arrived. “Your son Kenneth badly burned. Cannot yet tell how serious. He asks that you come at once. Inform me of train so that I can telegraph you."
The young graduate student in chemistry lay critically burned in Union Memorial Hospital in Baltimore, Maryland. While he had been performing an experiment, the chemical solution exploded, igniting his clothing into a mass of flames and burning him from head to toe.
He was a living torch for a minute. Fellow students pushed him under the safety shower, but the force of the pull broke the chain, losing precious minutes before the flames could be extinguished. He was then rushed to the closest hospital.
His father left Salt Lake City that afternoon by plane, arriving on Monday morning to be at his son's bedside. His mother and sweetheart followed by train.
Meanwhile the youth hovered between life and death as doctors and nurses ministered round the clock to save his life with intravenous feedings and blood transfusions. After a week of agonizingly long days, the doctors confirmed to the family that they thought---barring complications---he would live. After another week, his father and sweetheart returned home to their work and studies, leaving his mother at Kenneth's bedside.
The next crisis involved his vision. Instinctively the young man had covered his eyes with his hands, but had he protected them soon enough? For months his eyes remained bandaged. Finally, the moment came to remove the bandages. Yes, he could see---but he would need plastic surgery to reconstruct eyelids so that his eyes would close.
The next hurdle he faced was getting off the morphine that had been used liberally to ease the terrific pain. With true courage, he bravely stretched out the hours between doses.
Of course the young man still faced a long hospital stay. Many months would be needed for skin grafts and re-constructive plastic surgery so that his face would have a more normal appearance and he would have sufficient ear tissue to hold his glasses. Naturally, this left hours for him to think about his plight.
What would become of him? What about his four-year all expenses paid fellowship to study for his Ph.D.? What about his sweetheart? Could she still love a badly scarred and disfigured man with hands burned bent and deformed? After all, hadn’t the doctors been extremely careful not to allow a mirror in his room? Even though he still had his fine mind, would he ever be able to get a really good job where he had to interact with the public?
In spite of such weighty questions, twenty-year-old Kenneth usually remained cheerful and expressed appreciation to all who helped and served him. However, a most devastating moment occurred when he first saw himself in a mirror. Shocked by the drastic change, he was in tears and asked Dr. Davis, “Why didn’t you let me die?” Rather than allow him to languish in self-pity, the very wise and sensitive doctor responded in a way which turned Ken’s thoughts outward to others. “Doctors and nurses have worked day and night to save your life. Now it’s time for you to show some gratitude.”
Kenneth did develop a courageous acceptance of his situation and was admired by many around him. One of these was Albert Genter, a Baltimore resident who had met Ken as a bellhop at Bryce Canyon prior to his studies at Hopkins. Mr. Genter visited him daily---and multiple times on days when Ken had surgery. In a letter to Ken’s father he wrote, “As I was leaving the hospital the other night, I met Dr. Davis and remarked to him that Ken was looking and doing fine. He smiled all over and said, ‘That boy can’t do anything else. He is a marvel! He comes up smiling every time. He ought to be an inspiration to any thinking person.'’
As the weeks passed, Kenneth underwent surgery after surgery after surgery, progressing slowly, his Mother cheering him on. Word came that his scholarship would be extended and that he could continue his studies the following school year.
During the Christmas season, a myriad of cards brightened the young man’s room. On Christmas day, hidden among a mass of small gifts, a nurse discovered a special delivery letter, postmarked New York---and opened it, Kenneth not being able to use either hand yet. Out dropped a crisp $500 bill and a poem addressed to the bravest boy I ever knew, “Christmas Lines to a Hero.”
Merry Christmas, Kenneth Brighton, and a Happy New Year, too.
To the bravest, gamiest, fighting lad, of whom I ever knew.
Please accept this Christmas token as a tribute to your grit
And as you use it, now and then, may it ease your mind a bit.
You know, on your arrival, lad, your chances seemed quite slim
But now the New Year’s close at hand, you know you’re bound to win.
You know the days seemed endless, then---you know the nights seemed long
But nature does not hurry: it takes time to make you strong.
At first, you know, the clouds hung low and hid the sun from view
But silvery lines are round them now---See! the sun is peeping through:
Though thirty-two has seared your flesh and raced your limbs with pain
Thirty-three will atone for this and make you new again.
It’s a glad day for your Doctors, boy---those men of wondrous skill.
Who have worked so hard to pull you through, assisted by your will
And also for your Nurses, lad, those Nightingales in white.
Think how they hovered o’er your cot and watched you day and night.
And for your loving Mother---think how she sought to hide her fears
As she bravely smiled and cheered you on, while choking back her tears.
And for your Dad, think of him, my lad---although so far away---
How he has sacrificed and scrimped, that you, your bills may pay.
It’s a glad day, too, for your college pals---for your classmates one and all,
Think how hard they’ve tried to cheer you up every time they made a call
How they’ve stood upon the side-lines, how they’ve followed every play
Cheering you on to Victory as you slowly made your way.
They are rooting for you strong, today---can’t you hear the Hopkins yell?
It’s their way of Christmas caroling their hopes you’ll soon be well.
So make this a Merry Christmas---carry on and carry through---
And the same old pep that served you well, will make you good as new.
I’m an utter stranger, Kenneth, you will never know my name,
And you’ll never find it chiseled in any Hall of Fame,
I’m just a plain old duffer, lad, who, too, has suffered pain.
Who’s now ambling in the twilight, down the pathway of Life’s Lane.
So please forgive me, Kenneth, if my identity I hide
Just think of me, in spirit, saying “cheer-i-o” at your side
And put me in your Memory Book---though I know it will sound odd---
As one of those who, now and then, take fun in “playing God.”
Kenneth Brighton married his sweetheart, completed his Ph.D., reared a family, served his church and rose to Vice-President of Research and Development for the American Can Company. He died March 4, 1984 in Durham, North Carolina, never knowing the identity of the magnanimous donor of $500 (worth at least $5,000 today).
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