With Good Paper

Sent Saturday, April 12, 2008. I have been to some funerals/memorials which have had the Honor Guard present. It is a powerful thing to be a part of.

Today I took part in the Honor Guard for a deceased veteran. I have known him for the past 35 years or so, and have been friends with several of his children. He was a member of the ever thinning ranks of World War Two veterans.

Those of us who answered the call, and are members of organizations such as the American Legion and Veterans of Foreign Wars, provide the Honor Guard for our fallen comrades, whether or not we ever knew the deceased. We do this because they deserve it, and because we know that the time is approaching when we will be the one being honored.

Three Guns and Taps. A folded Flag.

It may not sound like much, but there is no higher honor for an ordinary veteran. At grave side, the family Pastor or Priest reads scripture, offers words of comfort, and a prayer. The service is then turned over to the commander of the Honor Guard. Words honoring the veterans service to his country are read, and another prayer is offered. The commander then calls, “Detail, ATTENTION “ “PRESENT ARMS “. Right hands snap from side to eyebrow. Rifles go from butt plate on the ground to a chest high two hand hold. Flags are hoisted to the air. All this is done in unison. Immediately following, the commander of the rifle squad calls, “Squad, ATTENTION “ “PRESENT ARMS “ “PREPARE TO FIRE. READY. AIM. FIRE. READY, AIM, FIRE. READY, AIM, FIRE.” With the first volley, a very predictable thing happens. Everyone in the funeral party jumps. And then the saddest of sounds. Through the noise of the following volleys can be heard the wailing cry of the widow or mother, and sometimes both. And then Taps is played on the bugle. The Honor Guard is then called to Order Arms. The flag is removed from the casket and folded into a triangle. If the deceased has been cremated, the flag would have been folded prior to the grave side service. The flag is then presented to the widow or mother of the deceased, “On behalf of the President and a grateful Nation.”

I have served on many an Honor Guard, and I still find it quite impossible to keep a dry eye in the face of what I have described. Usually, one or more of the family will approach and thank us for what we have done. But we have really not done so very much. We have but offered Tribute to one who has earned it.

Ordinary veteran? That is not a derogatory. The term in itself is an honor. If I may borrow a phrase. God must love the ordinary veteran, for He made so many of us.

Three Guns? The number of guns being fired is unimportant. We get as many veterans to turn out as possible, and the more in attendance, the more guns that are fired. It is the number of times the guns are fired. Three volleys for an ordinary veteran with good paper.

Good Paper? That simply means Honorably Discharged.

“Day is done, gone the sun, from the lake, from the hill, from the sky. All is well, safely rest. God is nigh.”

We Like It Here

Sent: Thursday, March 11, 2004

This is a portion of an email from Dad concerning the sending of care packages to my cousin-in-law while he was in Iraq. I’ve removed the portion of the email detailing the address, what to send, etc. Also, you might be interested that Robby is safely at home now after his tour of duty.

This is me. “We like it here, we like it here, you’re f—ing A, we like it here. We drink our beer without a tear, you’re f—ing A, we like it here.”

A life time ago, when I wore green clothes, we sang those words while we drank our homesickness away. And we were only in Texas. Now one of our own stands in harms way. I suppose that we all know that Robby is now in Iraq. Those of us who have not taken the oath and one step forward can not possibly know the importance of “mail call”. It is the difference between making a bad day bearable, and wondering what’s the use. Get those cards and letters going, folks. And more than that. Care packages. You can not imagine the joy of a box full of goodies. Soldiers are a caring lot. What we send to Robby will be shared with those around him. It has always been so.

A Story of Christmas Past

Sent: Thursday, December 19, 2002

We moved in to this old house in May of ‘75, and in mid-December, on a Saturday evening, Annie commenced to set up and decorate the Christmas Tree, for she was hosting a Kids Christmas Party for the family on Sunday morning. That very afternoon, we had tramped far and wide over Ely’s Tree Farm at the bottom of the hill until we found the perfect tree. Perfect enough in light of the fact that I finally reasoned with Annie by saying, “WILL YOU JUST PICK ONE ALREADY!!!!” So then I laid down in the snow and took to cutting at the thing with a dull old bow saw that the tree farmer had graciously loaned me in consideration of a two dollar and fifty cent deposit. If you have ever cut in to the trunk of a sappy evergreen with a dull old bow saw, you can appreciate my good humor by the time the job was done. For some reason, Annie always seemed content to pick a cut tree off the lot in years following.

So, we get the tree set all up in an old galvanized bucket filled with rocks and old bricks and tied it to the sill of the picture window so that it wouldn’t fall over. Annie got it to looking rather pretty, covering up the hollow spots so that you would hardly know they were there. But then a great calamity showed up. The “star” for the top of the tree, when unwrapped, was found to be in a rather bad state. It really wasn’t a star as such, but a cone shaped thing with a bulge in the center, with a Santa Claus doing one thing or the other, and it was in a few large pieces with countless shards abounding. And she said, “can you fix it?” Now growing up on a farm, you learn to fix most anything, but I had to admit that this one was beyond my humble abilities. So of course, Annie said, “Let’s go up town and get a new one.”

Now it is useful to remember that this was the year of ‘75, and the sleepy little town of Montrose rolled up the sidewalks at 9:00 P.M. promptly, and the time of the calamity being a bit after nine, it was a lost cause. Annie then suggested that we fly to Binghamton. Now in ‘75, the days of the big malls and of stores staying open late for your shopping convenience were not as yet in evidence. I sadly told her that even if we left right now, and if the stores of the big city were open to the late hour of ten o’clock, they would be closing up just as we got there. In all her wondrous logic, I was informed that you can’t very well have a Christmas Party without a star on the tree, and having so enlightened me, Annie pouted off to bed, leaving me in the kitchen to ponder these things.

So I did what any other man in my situation might do. I went to the frig and grabbed a beer. After several beers worth of contemplating the shattered mess left in my charge, my mind took to wandering back to that Christmas at Fort Hood a few years previous. Someone mentioned that it would be nice to have a Christmas Tree in our barracks. Now we were fortunate in that we had living in our bay a couple of guys who, by the allowance of a liberal judge, had joined the Army in lieu of going directly to jail. In the spirit of the season, they went out and stole a Christmas Tree. After getting it set up, it occurred to us that we had nary a bulb or light to hang on the poor thing. It was then suggested that we could make our own decorations using aluminum foil, but we had as much of that as we did bulbs and lights. So our enterprising patriots volunteered to break in to the mess hall for some foil, which they did. While they were so engaged, they thoughtfully liberated a gallon jar of olives as well.

So, we sat up late that night making all manner of aluminum foil stars, crosses, bulbs, chains, peace signs, and a few FTA’s, all the while feasting on army green olives. Now some of the non-veterans amongst us might wonder, “what the heck is an FTA?” Well, what with women and wee little ones being present, I can’t tell you what it stands for. But I will offer up a censored version, which would be, “Fooey the Army”. Now for some reason, the First Sergeant comes through the barracks that Sunday morning and spots our tree. In the warm and fuzzy way of all First Sergeants, he cites all manner or regulation prohibiting having trees in the barracks, and begs our favor of disposing of the offending tree. Such were the howls of protest that he decided to let the “Old Man” settle the issue. Now the Captain, who I believe was born with a shaved head, for that’s the only way anyone could ever remember having seen him, must have been in a cordial state of mind that morning. He pretended not to see the empty olive jar, which we had neglected to hide, and told us to “get those #%&?! Peace signs and FTA’s off that tree”. With that, he executed a perfect about face, and went off to do whatever it is that Captains and other such high beings might do on a day off.

And therein lay the answer to my conundrum. Aluminum foil and cardboard!!!! So I took a pencil and paper and began to draw a pattern of a typical 5 point star. An hour and a beer later, I decided that it is not within the human condition to draw a symmetrical 5 point star. Now the never ending troubles in the Middle East have confounded bigger minds than mine for many years, but that night it paid a dividend. The cover of my Newsweak magazine pictured the flag of Israel. Why not the Star of David? After all, triangles are easy enough to make, even for a somewhat sotted brain at one o’clock in the morning. An almost empty Cheerios box was pressed into service shortly thereafter, and with tape, foil, and pipe cleaners, it was transformed into a sparkling new star which adorned our Christmas Tree before I tumbled off to bed that cold winters night. Annie gave it a rather dubious look on Sunday morning, but I assured her that we would get a real one on our next trip to town.

As I was attaching the homemade star to the tree for the 26^th time this past December, I said to Annie, “Isn’t it time to retire this old thing? We could get one of those nice Angels that you so admire every year”. Her answer caused me to turn away to fiddle with one thing or another, so as to hide the tear in my eye. Annie said, “That ‘old thing’ is our star, and I don’t want a new one. I asked the boys the same question a few years ago, and they both said that our Christmas Tree just wouldn’t look right without Dad’s homemade star on the top”.

God has given many people many gifts over the many years. Some of God’s gifts are great, and some are small. Some are just bits of cardboard, foil and tape. Merry Christmas, and May God Bless Us, Everyone.

9/11

Sent: Saturday, September 15, 2001

This is me. That was the week that was. But it’s not over, and I hope and pray that we do not let it go. In the several days since this attack, I have gone from outrage and anger, to “a terrible resolve”. I am not sure why, but this has put me to mind of something from my Army days.

There is no humor in this story, just as there is no humor in the events of this week. Back in 1970 and ‘71, this great land of ours was being torn apart by anti-war riots, and the last vestige of the race riots. The government came up with a plan to cope with the riots should the state governments and National Guard be unable to quell the disturbances. The plan was to send in the regular army, with the assumption that “shoot to kill” would be required and used. This plan was rather grotesquely called “Rose Garden”.

My regiment was assigned the city of St. Louis. Every company was required to send its personnel to a 2 day class on how to disperse the population by use of any and all force needed. On the first day of the class, after morning break about 1/4 of us, me included, did not return. After lunch, only a handful returned. On the second day the results were about the same. So a class was scheduled a few weeks later.

The First Sergeant addressed the company prior to being marched to the class. He said as only an old sergeant could, “Two weeks ago I sent 200 swinging dicks to rose garden. Not enough finished to make a decent circle jerk!!! This time the Old Man has graciously assigned officers to chaperon you wienies!!!” But you know, rose garden wasn’t finished this time either. To a man, the company refused to be taught how to kill Americans. The general theme was that St. Louis could burn to the ground before we would open fire on civilians. The officers gave up and dismissed the company for an invigorating round of P.T. And it wasn’t just our company, or battalion, or regiment, or division, or fort. I later learned that this quiet rebellion was army wide. The brass decided to drop the matter. I thought then, and now, that it spoke volumes that our military put civilian lives on such a wondrously high pedestal.

My heart has been warmed these days by the great display of flags everywhere. On porches of houses on lonely country roads, of small villages, and the big city (Binghamton). Signs proclaiming “United We Stand” and “God Bless America” in evidence everywhere one travels. I know that this is going to hurt for sometime to come, and that the dying isn’t done. I also know that we will prevail. As a first louie told us a life time ago, “Persevere and you’ll get through”.

8 cents

Sent: Monday, July 16, 2001 – Although this is from a repost my brother sent. I’m not sure of the original date it was sent. Don’t tell my cousin Julie that I don’t know when her birthday is.

This is me. I remember that I was working in the barn when I found out that I had become an uncle, but I can not remember just what I was doing. Slopping the hogs, cleaning the drops, who knows? I do remember when I was at Fort Hood. After mail call, my best buddy, Larry Don, read his three page letter to me as was our custom to do. Then he said, what did you get. What I got was a drawing made by a wonderful young girl. It was the usual, with a house, a tree, a cloud, and so forth. The message read, “Dear Uncle Carl. This is the best picture I ever drew. Love, Julie” I handed the drawing to Larry Don. After a few seconds he said, “Is that it?” I said “yep”. He said “that’s a waste of an 8 cent stamp.” I said “No, it made me smile, and a smile at Fort Hood is worth 8 cents anyday.” Larry grinned from ear to ear and said “you know, you’re right. It beats the heck out of my 3 page letter.” Thanks Julie. Happy Birthday. Love ya big. Uncle Carl

Going Home

Sent : Saturday, March 3, 2001

This is me. While writing of my time at Fort Hood and Julie’s drawing, I was put to mind of a trip home. Being soldiers, we flew military standby which was 1/3 regular fare. Usually you were able to get on the flight that you wanted, but not always.

One day I was told by the tall and pretty boarding agent that I would be able to board, and so went and called home and told them that I would be arriving in Baltimore on (Airline names and flight numbers are made up) United Flight # 123. As I returned to the boarding gate the tall and pretty boarding agent looked rather sad, and said, “I’m sorry, but someone with a confirmed reservation just showed up”. I must have looked quite crestfallen, for suddenly she said, “let me check a few things”. She looked up from the screen and smiled. “There is an Eastern flight scheduled to leave soon, that goes to Atlanta, and then to Baltimore, and would get you there only a half hour late. Let me make a call. She quickly put the phone down and said, “The plane has left the terminal and has begun to taxi to the runway. They are stopping and pulling it back to the apron. Eastern gate # 234. RUN.” I said, “my luggage”, she said, “it will be there”, I said, “my folks won’t know where to find me”, she said, “yes they will, NOW RUN!!!”

So I did an O.J. through the terminal. As I slid to a stop at Eastern gate #234, the tall and pretty boarding agent (they all seemed to be tall and pretty. why is that?) grabbed my ticket, stamped this, ripped that, gave it back and said, “down the steps, straight through the door, and hit the tarmac running”. So across the tarmac, and up the steps I flew. I had one foot in the plane when they pulled the steps away, and I felt the breeze of the door slamming shut. The hostess told me that a message would be waiting at the United gate telling my family where to find me.

We were just starting down the aisle when the pilot hit the diesels and put the big machine in motion. As I followed the tall and pretty hostess through first class, I was greeted with friendly nods and warm smiles. When I entered the coach section, a round of applause went up. At first, I thought that I was being mocked, but I wasn’t. The guy in the seat next to me told me that the pilot came on the intercom and said, “what we have here folks, is a young soldier trying real hard to get home. At this moment he is making a mad dash through the terminal, and we’re going to sit right here and wait for him”. I still marvel that an airline would pull a big expensive plane off the taxi way just for one homesick ’sojer’, and that so many strangers would accept a delay with out one complaint.