Today we visited the final resting place of Debbie Reynolds and her daughter, Carrie Fisher, two legendary figures whose contributions to film, music, and popular culture spanned generations. Debbie Reynolds rose to fame in the 1950s with iconic musicals such as Singin’ in the Rain and The Unsinkable Molly Brown, building a remarkable six-decade career as an entertainer and businesswoman. Her charm, talent, and determination made her a beloved figure in Hollywood and beyond.

Carrie Fisher followed in her mother’s footsteps, beginning her acting career as a teenager and achieving worldwide fame as Princess Leia in the Star Wars films. Beyond her iconic role, Fisher was an acclaimed writer, sharing candidly about her struggles with substance abuse, bipolar disorder, and her complex, loving relationship with her mother.

Tragically, the pair passed away just one day apart in December 2016. On December 23, Carrie Fisher suffered a cardiac arrest following a collapse on a flight from London to Los Angeles and died four days later at the age of 60. The very next day, Debbie Reynolds suffered a stroke at her son’s home, shortly after expressing her wish to be with Carrie, and passed away at the age of 84. While Reynolds was laid to rest, Fisher was cremated, with part of her ashes placed alongside her mother.

Visiting their resting place is a reminder of the extraordinary legacy of two women whose talent, resilience, and love for life continue to inspire generations of fans and artists around the world.

Rest in peace, Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher. Your artistry, courage, and indelible mark on entertainment live on forever.

#fblifestyle #DebbieReynolds #CarrieFisher #StarWars #PrincessLeia #HollywoodLegend #GraveTour #FilmHistory #EntertainmentLegacy #MotherAndDaughter

She was 22 years old when she stepped off a plane into hell — and discovered that wearing mascara in a war zone wasn't vanity, it was survival.

In 1965, while most young women were choosing wedding dresses or college majors, Grace Lilleg Moore made a different choice: she joined the Army Student Nurse Program. The deal was straightforward — finish nursing school, serve two years, and save lives wherever they sent you.

They sent her to Vietnam.

Grace graduated in 1966, trained at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, and spent her first year at Reynolds Army Hospital in Oklahoma. She was skilled, confident, and completely unprepared for what came next.

In May 1968, her orders arrived: Vietnam.

When the plane landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Grace walked into air so thick with heat it felt like breathing through a wet towel. She was assigned to the 12th Evacuation Hospital near Cu Chi — a facility that would treat over 37,000 wounded during the war. But calling it a "hospital" was generous. It was quonset huts and canvas tents held together by determination and prayer.

Grace worked the ICU, then became head nurse of the orthopedic unit. At twenty-three years old, she was making life-or-death decisions every single day. The injuries were beyond anything her textbooks had prepared her for — limbs blown apart, bones shattered beyond recognition, wounds that seemed impossible to survive.

But here's what almost destroyed her, and what ultimately saved her:

These weren't just soldiers. They were boys. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. Terrified. Crying for their mothers. Dying thousands of miles from everyone who loved them.

"We didn't just take care of their physical wounds," Grace later said. "We were their mother, their wife, their girlfriend. We were everything they needed us to be."

That's why the mascara mattered.

Grace and the other nurses fought to look put-together even when they were running on two hours of sleep and coffee that tasted like gasoline. These dying boys needed to see something familiar — someone who looked like the girl next door, like their sister, like home. In a place where nothing made sense, that small gesture of normalcy was a lifeline.

The cost was devastating.

Grace held soldiers as they died in her arms. She wrote final letters home for boys whose hands shook too badly to hold a pen. She worked until her body shut down, then kept working. The emotional weight nearly crushed her. She questioned her faith, her strength, whether she'd make it home with any part of herself still intact.

She survived by leaning on her fellow nurses — women who understood because they were living the same nightmare. She wrote letters home. She focused on the next patient, the next procedure, the next life she might be able to save. And somewhere in that crucible of suffering, she discovered something unbreakable inside herself.

"I don't know what kind of nurse I would have been if it were not for Vietnam," she said years later. The war shattered something in her, but it forged something stronger in its place.

Grace came home in December 1968 after seven months in-country.

There were no parades for nurses. No welcome ceremonies. No recognition at all. Just a quiet return to civilian life and the expectation that she'd simply forget and move on.

She couldn't. So she chose not to.

Grace joined Vietnam Veterans of America. She became Pennsylvania Coordinator for the Women's Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. — the monument that finally acknowledged what 11,000 military women endured in Vietnam. She began speaking at schools, veterans' events, anywhere people would listen.

And sometimes, miraculously, former patients found her — men who remembered the nurse who held their hand in the worst moment of their lives, who promised them they'd survive, who wore mascara in hell because small gestures of humanity matter most when everything else is falling apart.

Grace Lilleg Moore is retired now, but her mission continues. She still speaks. She still honors the nurses who never made it home. She still reminds America that women went to war too — and came back forever changed.

Her legacy isn't just measured in the lives she saved, though there were many. It's measured in the memory she refuses to let die, in the truth she represents: that service doesn't end when you take off the uniform. It's a calling that echoes through a lifetime.

To Grace and every nurse who served in Vietnam: You were healers in the darkest places. You were light when there was only darkness. You were strength when everything was breaking.

Thank you doesn't feel like enough. But it's what we have.

So thank you. For your service. For your sacrifice. For your courage. And for remembering when the world tried to forget.

#VietnamNurses #WomenWhoServed

~Weird Wonders and Facts

 

 

Jim Meads was a photographer living in Hatfield, Hertfordshire near the Hatfield aerodrome in 1962. A pilot friend notified him on September 13th of that year that he would be test flying an English Electric Lightning F1 XG332 if he would like to come take some photos. Happy to get shots of the only British built fighter capable of Mach 2 speeds, he set out toward the airfield hoping to get photos of his children with the F1 landing in the background. The photo he ended up getting would become famous.

As he and his family walked up, a grounds keeper for the airfield approached them in a tractor to tell them to leave the area. That’s when the plane went out of control at a very low altitude with the pilot ejecting at the last possible moment, setting up an incredible, one of kind shot (especially for the time). As it turns out, the pilot was not Mead’s friend, but another test pilot named George Aird. He landed on a tomato greenhouse nearby, crashing through the roof and breaking both legs on the way down. The story is well documented by Aird, Meads, and Mike Sutterby, the tractor bound groundskeeper who was only 23 at the time.