|
I've put some writtings on this page that have touched me and most veterans I know. I hope you enjoy them.
Michael
"Something from the Children" of Vietnam Veterans
Seventh Annual NamVet Page 17 Volume 7, Number 1 November 12, 1994 I Was There Just Last Night by Robert Clark Issue Nine - 1994 * The High Ground P
O Box 457 - Neillsville, WI 54456 A couple of years ago someone asked me if I still thought about Vietnam.
I nearly laughed in their face. How do you stop thinking about it? Every day for the last twenty-four years, I wake up with
it, and go to bed with it. But this is what I said. "Yea, I think about it. I can't quit thinking about
it. I never will. But, I've also learned to live with it. I'm comfortable with the memories. I've learned to stop
trying to forget and learned instead to embrace it. It just doesn't scare me anymore." A psychologist
once told me that NOT being affected by the experience over there would be abnormal. When he told me that, it was like he'd
just given me a pardon. It was as if he said, "Go ahead and feel something about the place, Bob. It ain’t going
nowhere. You're gonna wear it for the rest of your life. Might as well get to know it." A
lot of my "brothers” haven’t been so lucky. For them the memories are too painful, their sense of loss too
great. My sister told me of a friend she has whose husband was in the Nam. She asks this guy when he was there. Here's
what he said, "Just last night." It took my sister a while to figure out what he was talking about. JUST LAST NIGHT.
Yeah I was in the Nam. When? JUST LAST NIGHT. During sex with my wife. And on my way to work this morning. Over
my lunch hour. Yeah, I was there. My sister says I'm not the same brother that went to Vietnam. My wife says I won't
let people get close to me, not even her. They're probably both right. Ask a vet about making friends
in Nam. It was risky. Why? Because we were in the business of death, and death was with us all the time. It wasn't the
death of, "If I die before I wake." This was the real thing. The kind where boys scream for their mothers. The kind
that lingers in your mind and becomes more real each time you cheat it. You don't want to make a lot of friends
when the possibility of dying is that real, that close. When you do, friends become a liability. A
guy named Bob Flanigan was my friend. Bob Flanigan is dead. I put him in a body bag one sunny day, April 29, 1969. We'd
been talking, only a few minutes before he was shot, about what we were going to do when we got back in the world. Now, this
was a guy who had come in country the same time as myself. A guy who was loveable and generous. He had blue eyes and sandy
blond hair. When he talked, it was with a soft drawl. Flanigan was a hick and he knew it. That was
part of his charm. He didn't care. Man, I loved this guy like the brother I never had. But, I screwed up. I got too close
to him. Maybe I didn't know any better. But I broke one of the unwritten rules of war. DON'T GET CLOSE TO PEOPLE WHO
ARE GOING TO DIE. Sometimes you can't help it. You hear vets use the term "buddy" when
they refer to a guy they spent the war with. "Me an this buddy a mine . . ." "Friend" sounds too intimate,
doesn't it. "Friend" calls up images of being close. If he's a friend, then you are going to be hurt if
he dies, and war hurts enough without adding to the pain. Get close; get hurt. It's as simple as that. In war you learn to keep people at that distance my wife talks about. You become so good at it, that twenty years
after the war is over, you still do it without thinking. You won't allow yourself to be vulnerable again. My wife knows two people who can get into the soft spots inside me. My daughters. I know it probably bothers her that
they can do this. It's not that I don't love my wife, I do. She's put up with a lot from me. She'll tell you
that when she signed on for better or worse she had no idea there was going to be so much of the latter. But with my daughters
it's different. My girls are mine. They'll always be my kids. Not marriage, not distance, not
even death can change that. They are something on this earth that can never be taken away from me. I belong to them. Nothing
can change that. I can have an ex-wife; but my girls can never have an ex-father. There's the difference. I can still see the faces, though they all seem to have the same eyes. When I think of us I always see a line of "dirty
grunts" sitting on a paddy dike. We're caught in that first gray silver between darkness and light. That first moment
when we know we've survived another night, and the business of staying alive for one more day is about to
begin. There was so much hope in that brief space of time. It's what we used to pray for. "One more day, God. One
more day." And I can hear our conversations as if they'd only just been spoken. I still hear
the way we sounded, the hard cynical jokes, our morbid senses of humor. We were scared to death of dying, and trying our best
not to show it. I recall the smells, too. Like the way cordite hangs on the air after a firefight.
Or the pungent odor of rice paddy mud. So different from the black dirt of Iowa. The mud of Nam smells ancient, somehow. Like
it's always been there. And I'll never forget the way blood smells, stick and drying on my
hands. I spent a long night that way once. That memory isn't going anywhere. I remember how the
night jungle appears almost dream like as the pilot of a Cessna buzzes overhead, dropping parachute flares until morning.
That artificial sun would flicker and make shadows run through the jungle. It was worse than not being able to see what was
out there sometimes. I remember once looking at the man next to me as a flare floated overhead. The shadows around
his eyes were so deep that it looked like his eyes were gone. I reached over and touched him on the arm; without looking at
me he touched my hand. "I know man. I know." That's what he said. It was a human moment. Two guys a long way
from home and scared sh*tless. "I know man." And at that moment he did. God I loved those
guys. I hurt every time one of them died. We all did. Despite our posturing. Despite our desire to stay disconnected, we couldn't
help ourselves. I know why Tim writes his stories. I know what gives Bruce Weigle the words to create poems so honest I cry
at their horrible beauty. It's love. Love for those guys we shared the experience with. We
did our jobs like good soldiers, and we tried our best not to become as hard as our surroundings. We touched each other and
said, "I know." Like a mother holding a child in the middle of a nightmare, "It's going to be all right."
We tried not to lose touch with our humanity. We tried to walk that line. To be the good boys our parents had
raised and not to give into that unnamed thing we knew was inside us all. You want to know what frightening
is? It's a nineteen-year-old-boy who's had a sip of that power over life and death that war gives you. It's a
boy who, despite all the things he's been taught, knows that he likes it. It's a nineteen-year-old who's just
lost a friend, and is angry and scared and, determined that, "Some *@#*s gonna pay." To this day, the thought of
that boy can wake me from a sound sleep and leave me staring at the ceiling. As I write this, I have
a picture in front of me. It's of two young men. In their laps are tablets. One is smoking a cigarette. Both stare without
expression at the camera. They're writing letters. Staying in touch with places they would rather be. Places and people
they hope to see again. The picture shares space in a frame with one of my wife. She doesn't mind.
She knows she's been included in special company. She knows I'll always love those guys who shared that part of my
life, a part she never can. And she understands how I feel about the ones I know are out there yet. The ones who still answer
the question, "When were you in Vietnam?" "Hey, man. I was there just last night."
Only God knows how true this really is...and another vet.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Sad Duty Of Bringing The Fallen Home Date: Sun, 21 Nov 2004 00:21:37 -0500 Informational Mail Billy "Tumbleweed" Parker President Rolling Thunder NJ Chapter 2 This will bring some tears. Very sad,
indeed...May God continue to bless the United States Marine Corps for all it has given to the nation...Lancer Gentlemen, I just wanted to share with all of you my most recent Air Force Reserve trip. As
most of you know, I have decided to go back into the Air Force Reserves as a part time reservist and after 6 months of training,
I have recently been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and have been fully mission qualified as an Aircraft Commander of a KC-135R
strato tanker aircraft. On Friday of last week, my crew and I were tasked with a mission to provide
air refueling support in order to tanker 6 F-16's over to Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. We were then to tanker back to
the states, 6 more F-16's that were due maintenance. It started out as a fairly standard mission - one that I have done
many times as an active duty Captain in my former jet - the KC10a extender. We dragged the F-16's
to Moron Air Base in Spain where we spent the night and then finished the first part of our mission the next day by successfully
delivering them to Incirlik. When I got on the ground in Turkey, I received a message to call the Tanker Airlift Control Center
that my mission would change. Instead of tankering the F-16's that were due maintenance, I was cut new orders to fly to
Kuwait City and pick up 22 "HR's" and return them to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware. It
had been a w hile since I had heard of the term "HR" used, and as I pondered what the acronym could possibly stand
for, when it dawned on me that it stood for human remains. There were 22 fallen comrades who had just been killed in the most
recent attacks in Fallujah and Baghdad, Iraq over the last week. I immediately alerted the crew of
the mission change and although they were exhausted due to an ocean crossing, the time change and minimum ground time in Spain
for crew rest, we all agreed that it was more important to get these men back to their families as soon as possible. We were scheduled to crew rest in Incirlik, Turkey for the evening and start the mission the next day. Instead, we
decided to extend/continue our day and fly to Kuwait in order to pick up our precious cargo. While on the flight over to Kuwait,
I knew that there were protocol procedures for accepting and caring for human remains, however, in my 13 years of active duty
service, I never once had to refer to this regulation. As I read the regulation on the flight over, I felt prepared and ready
to do the mission. My game plan was to pick up the HR's and turn around to fly to Mildenhal Air Base in England, spend
the night, and then fly back the next day. This was the quickest way to get them home, considering the maximum crew duty day
that I could subject my crew to legally and physically. I really pushed them to the limits but no one complained at all. I thought that I was prepared for the acceptance of these men until we landed at Kuwait International.
I taxied the jet over to a staging area where the honor guard was waiting to load our soldiers. I stopped the jet and the
entire crew was required to stay on board. We opened the cargo door, and according to procedure, I had the crew line up in
the back of the aircraft in formation and stand at attention. As the cargo loader brought up the first pa llet of caskets,
I ordered the crew to "Present Arms". Normally, we would snap a salute at this command, however, when you are dealing
with a fallen soldier, the salute is a slow 3 second pace to position. As I stood there and finally saw the first four of
twenty-two caskets draped with the American Flags, the reality had hit me. As the Marine Corps honor guard delivered the first
pallet on board, I then ordered the crew to "Order Arms" - where they rendered an equally slow 3 second return to
the attention position. I then commanded the crew to assume an at ease position and directed them to properly place the pallet.
The protocol requires that the caskets are to be loaded so when it comes time to exit the aircraft - they will go head first.
We did this same procedure for each and every pallet until we could not fit any more. I felt a deep
pit in my stomach when there were more caskets to be brought home and that they would have to w ait for the next jet to come
through. I tried to do everything in my power to bring more home but they I had no more space on board. When we were finally
loaded, with our precious cargo and fueled for the trip back to England, a Marine Corps Colonel from first battalion came
on board our jet in order to talk to us. I gathered the crew to listen to him and his words of wisdom. He
introduced himself and said that it is the motto of the Marines to leave no man behind and it makes their job easier knowing
that there were men like us to help them complete this task. He was very grateful for our help and the strings that we were
pulling in order to get this mission done in the most expeditious manner possible. He then said -" Major Zarnik - these
are MY MARINES and I am giving them to you. Please take great care of them as I know you will". I responded with telling
him that they are my highest priority and that although this was one of the saddest days of my life, we are all up for the
challenge and will go above and beyond to take care of your Marines - "Semper Fi Sir" A smile came on his face and
he responded with a loud and thunderous, "Ooo Rah". He then asked me to please pass along to the families that these
men were extremely brave and had made the ultimate sacrifice for their country and that we appreciate and empathize with what
they are going through at this time of their grievance. With that, he departed the jet and we were on our way to England.
I had a lot of time to think about the men that I had the privilege to carry. I had a chance to read
the manifest on each and every one of them. I read about their religious preferences, their marital status, the injuries that
were their cause of death. All of them were under age 27 with most in the 18-24 range. Most of them had wives and children.
They had all been killed by an " IED" which I can only deduce as an incendiary explosive devices like rocket propelled
grenades. Mostly fatal head injuries and injuries to the chest area. I could not even imagine the bravery that they must have
displayed and the agony suffered in this God Forsaken War. My respect and admiration for these men and what they are doing
to help others in a foreign land is beyond calculation. I know that they are all with God now and in a better place. The stop in Mildenhal was uneventful and then we pressed on to Dover where we would meet the receiving Marine Corps
honor guard. When we arrived, we applied the same procedures in reverse. The head of each casket was to come out first. This
was a sign of respect rather than defeat. As the honor guard carried each and every American flag covered casket off of the
jet, they delivered them to awaiting families with military hearses. I was extremely impressed with how diligent the Hono
r Guard had performed the seemingly endless task of delivering each of the caskets to the families without fail and with precision.
There was not a dry eye on our crew or in the crowd. The Chaplain then said a prayer followed by a speech from Lt. Col. Klaus
of the second Battalion. In his speech, he also reiterated similar condolences to the families as the Colonel from First Battalion
back in Kuwait. I then went out to speak with the families as I felt it was my duty to help console
them in this difficult time. Although I would probably be one of the last military contacts that they would have for a while
- the military tends to take care of it's own. I wanted to make sure that they did not feel abandoned and more than that
appreciated for their ultimate sacrifice. It was the most difficult thing that I have ever done in my life. I listened to
the stories of each and every one that I had come in contact with and they all displ ayed a sense of pride during an obviously
difficult time. The Marine Corps had obviously prepared their families well for this potential outcome. So,
why do I write this story to you all? I just wanted to put a little personal attention to the numbers that you hear about
and see in the media. It is almost like we are desensitized by all of the "numbers" of our fallen comrades coming
out of Iraq. I heard one commentator say that "it is just a number". Are you kidding me? These are our American
Soldiers not numbers! It is truly a sad situation that I hope will end soon. Please hug and embrace your loved ones a little
closer and know that there are men out there that are defending you and trying to make this a better world. Please pray for
their families and when you hear the latest statistic's and numbers of our soldiers killed in combat, please remember
this story. It is the only way that I know to more person alize these figures and have them truly mean something to us all. Thanks for all of your support for me and my family as I take on this new role in completing my Air Force
Career and supporting our country. I greatly appreciate all of your comments, gestures and prayers. May
God Bless America, us all, and especially the United States Marine Corps. Semper Fi
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The below story is one veteran's way
of finding some meaning in the life we have left. I placed it here to help some of my brothers find there way back. I hope
it helps them and I hope it helps others to understand what it is like to be a "Vietnam Veteran".
The Long Road Home
By T. Evans
Oh Vietnam, what else can you take from me. You have my mind and my
body, but you will never get my soul. That belongs to my wife, my family, and me. Your blood riddled soil has stolen many
a poor boy, from life, living, and the pursuit of happiness; however, you have not won the war, your are still a Prisoner
of War, you are not FREE, but I AM. It has taken most of my life to figure out the equation to deal with your wrath, but I
have a handle on it now and would like to share my successes with what is left of the Vietnam veteran society.
The
words of a famous President, "Ask not, what your country can do for YOU, Ask what YOU can do for your country."
Those words more than any other words that come to mind, made us, the Vietnam veteran, proud of what we did and who we are
today. The journey home has taken almost 30 years of denial, guilt, therapy plus medication, and the finial acceptance of
who I am; a husband, father, and a human being. The first years were all denial. People always asked my how I got hurt, my
response was, "oh, I got hurt playing tennis." Then I would order another round for the bar, and go home blotto
every night. Years went by, drowning in a bottle of booze that would take away the pain, (I thought). All the booze did was
cover up the scars of a war that made sense when you were there, but made no sense when upon return to the States you were
scorned by the very people you thought you were there to protect from the spread of communism.
It was American
patriotism that our generation believed in; our fathers fought WWII and freed the world from the dark forces that threatened
our very existence. My father fought in WWII and Korea. He turned to the bottle to cover up his PTSD, and thank God he got
sober 10 months before his death at the age of 46. The Vietnam veteran fought, won, and lost because of political decisions
that were made by the politicians during this time period. In Tet 68 we had the North Vietnamese Army beaten into a thread
of existence. We could have walked into Hanoi and raised the United Nations Flag on top of their capitol building, but the
politicians said NO. I realize the politicians were under fire from the citizens in their respective districts, but it was
no excuse to turn their backs on the very men who had just defeated the North Vietnamese Army. From that point on it was all
down hill; the pressure by the American people to end the war was a better political choice, and the withdrawal of American
and Allied troops began.
In retrospect; Vietnam was an internal civil war, much like our own civil war. The American
Civil War was about white men having ownership of black people who were kidnapped from their own country against their own
will and forced into slavery. North Vietnam was a communist country fighting against a corrupt but free South Vietnamese government.
In 1967 some of the American soldiers joked that the reason we were in Vietnam was to protect the Coca-Cola bottling plant
in Saigon. Is it right to become involved in another countries civil war? My conclusion after 30 years of mental turmoil,
if you send one American or Allied boy to a foreign country to fight a battle, it must be only to fight to the death and WIN.
The United Nations flag must be blowing in the wind over the defeated country. The price of freedom is very costly, but the
price of being a free loser is even higher.
The road back has been a real hell, but it is a hell that for me was
worth all the effort I endured. What is life without a purpose? It's an existence. The answers to finding ones purpose
is an exhaustive search that lies deep within your soul.
In 1981, I was a musical instrument repairman. One
day a parade went by my shop, I went out to see what it was all about, and to my amazement, it was a parade honoring some
local Vietnam veterans. I couldn't believe it, I had never heard of such an event. It was the first parade given in the
country to honor Vietnam veterans. The parade was put on the local American Legion and local county government officials.
It was truly an uplifting experience.
My wife was watching television one night and called out, "come quick";
the vets that were in the parade had a telethon about a new vets group, The Organization of Vietnam veterans. Along with the
telethon they were showing an interview with a Vietnam vet who had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We couldn't believe
some of the symptoms the vet had were very similar to many of the problems I was experiencing. I called in and found out they
were having a meeting at the local American Legion. The time came around for the meeting and I was really getting stressed
out, but after about an hour of hearing some of the vets speak they asked if anyone would like to join. I happened to be the
first new member to join (# 9), and from that point on my life began to change. I felt a bound of camaraderie that I hadn't
felt since the war. I actually thought I was going crazy with some of the thoughts I was having, but most of the men in the
organization were having some the same thoughts and I felt like I had finally found some answers. As I look back at it now,
it was just the beginning of the long road home.
My high school senior picture, this was taken about the same time
my class was graduating. It was a sign of the times, as you can tell by the look in my eyes. Many years have come and gone
since The Nam, and many transformations have taken place in the rebirth of a civilized human being. I have to give a lot credit
to the Organization of Vietnam veterans (OVV) for getting my healing process off the ground. As you will see in the end it
was my wife of 23 years, and my children that stuck with through all the years of therapy and soul searching for answers.
OVV had purpose and a mission in the early 80's, The Wall, community awareness, and above all listening to what
each other had to say and help each other through the years of stored up pain and anger. I was very fortunate to be in the
first VA Outreach therapy program in our area, but first there was The Wall.
OVV represented The State of New York
in the Welcome Home Parade in Washington D.C., the same weekend as the dedication of The Wall. The Wall stirred up memories
that I had been hiding for years. When you look at The Wall you see a reflection of yourself in the highly polished Vermont
granite. At first I was upset about the design, but once you visit The Wall a profound wave of emotions are released. For
me it was the first time I was able to cry since the war; not even my father dying in my arms along a roadside brought a tear
to my war hardened empty shell.
The dedication ceremony was somewhat moving but not as much as the two vets who
traded holding the American Flag for 48 hours; because the congress at the time voted not to have an American Flag the site.
I believe the rational behind their decision was since we did not win the war it would be a disgrace to fly Old Glory over
the loser's memorial. I believe that decision gave me the strength too be proud of who I am and what I did. While at the
dedication I was in the front row of the handicapped section, General Westmoreland stopped and shook my hand. You could tell
by the look in his eyes how sorry he was for not being given the chance to fight to the death; instead being branded as a
man who was ordered not WIN.
A friend of mine, Bob from OVV, read the first three pages. He told me to go
on with the story there's much more. The more I read this text over and over again; there really is no conclusion, just
and ending. I sat and thought about it for a while; there really isn't and ending to the story. It's like a really
bad movie; it ends and leaves you without a conclusion. The story line was there, the content was there, and BOOM just like
a trip wire it's over. That really speaks well for the condition, PTSD. There really is never an ending, just constant
reminder that we all have to learn to live with.
My secret is to stay completely focused on what ever makes me
happy. In my situation my choices are narrowed down, due to physical conditions that are a result of Vietnam. I am just lucky
I really enjoy working with computers. So I sit everyday in front of a monitor and stay occupied 8 to 10 hours a day. Me at
my work area. It may sound like, "what's this guy talking about, I hate computers." That's just the point
I am doing what I like to do, and it keeps me focused enough so I don't think about Vietnam all the time. But that's
not an answer too: The Long Road Home? For me it is. For all of you still looking for answers. Do what you like!
I wish I had the answers, but I don't. That's why they have group therapy so you can deal with your past and get
on with your future. Remember; my future started when I found The Organization of Vietnam Veteran's, and The Paralyzed
Veterans of America.
We are not getting any younger, and the VA budget is frozen. By the way, it's frozen by
the same government body who sent us all to Vietnam. Don't take me wrong, I would volunteer again in an instant for military
duty, to protect our freedom, and fight to the death for the country I love. You have to get involved, write some letters,
and start complaining to the people who put us in this situation; the very people your supposed to be voting for. You wouldn't
be reading this if you weren't connected to the Internet. You can locate all of your elected officials email addresses
just by a simple search. We can't let the very system that took are victory away, take away our VA Hospitals, too. I am
telling you from being in the system from my teens, and the big 50, is staring me right in the eye in a couple of months,
our benefits and services are being cut to the bone. So, if you still don't want to do anything about your PTSD, do something
about our hospitals. The day may come when you have no choice, and the program will be cut and you won't get the help
you need
I didn't spend all these painful weeks it took me to compose this story to be meant as a political
statement. I wrote because I wanted to share how I found, The Long Road Home, and if it just helps one veteran seek help for
his or her problem with PTSD. Then I have done what this little story was all about: The Long Road Home.
Taking
the 2nd step
I was still self-medicating myself every night, by drinking myself silly so I could get some sleep.
I still drank for the first few years of therapy, but I was becoming a babbling idiot. My wife was about to leave. I had to
make a decision the booze or my family. It's been 14 years since I have taken a drink.
That was the turning
point to the healing process. The years of covered up and deeply hidden emotions and horrors began to low like a river. I
won't elaborate on any of the topics we covered in those years, the stories of the men that experienced the journey with
me will be held in the strictest confidence until the day I die. I can tell you that everyone's own Vietnam was very different,
but we all went on a painful journey of our souls together and now we all have our own separate lives. I will tell you this,
PTSD is a real and valid condition that affects each individual in a different way, but the bottom line; it is a condition
that never goes away and each individual has to learn to live with their ghosts because the ghosts never go away.
When we, returned to Washington D.C. for the dedication of the Three Man Monument. That was after two years of intense therapy.
OVV was still a strong importance in my life, and sharing these feelings with men that had been in similar situations helped
to deal with the intense emotions that The Wall unleashes. It is really hard to tell another person how to deal with so much
emotion. That's why I believe in the group approach along with individual therapy sessions. I count myself lucky again,
that was the early 80's and psychotherapy was accepted by the masses. Hell it's the 90's now, and it's even
cooler. What I am trying to say here, if you have PTSD deal with it. The longer you wait, the longer it is going to take to
learn to live with the condition
On my next visit The WALL was the most popular place to visit in Washington DC.
A few years have passed, it's been cleaned, paved, and now has 2 flagpoles. At the memorial site there are large books
located in several places to look up what panel #'s the names of your fallen comrades are etched on. I started at the
top by the Lincoln Memorial side and proceeded down to the center. The beauty of this visit were all the messages and articles
people left to the fallen hero's photo 1, photo 2, photo 3. The beautiful flower arrangement's, photo1, photo 2, my
service organization, and finally to one of my buddies I grew up with. The emotions The Wall opens up are painful and sometimes
too powerful to deal with. You should really go with your family or a group, on this visit I teamed up with Jim and Steve,
fellow OVV members.
As you emerge from the canyon of fallen hero's, you follow the path to the Vietnam Monument,
a beautiful, but powerful representation of 3 combat veterans. Photo 1, photo 2, photo 3, and photo 4. The work of art is
spectacular, you can tell by the look in their eyes, the scars war leaves on the human psyche where they are imprinted forever.
At the end of that day I looked up saw beauty, I knew from that moment on, there was a reason I survived. I
had no idea at the time what the reason was. As I look back upon the day now, it was another turning point in my quest to
live in coexistence with the memories that would never go away.
My last parade
Return to forever:
upon return from The Wall II, The Monument, it was time to stop drinking booze and get on what I thought would be the cure.
Quitting the booze was hard, but not as hard as dealing with the explosive emotions that followed. I fell into a deep depression;
I had feelings of suicide that drove me to a breakdown. My therapist told me that checking into to a psyche unit would be
an option to consider. I was already diagnosed by a VA Psychiatrist, that I had PTSD. So I checked into a VA psyche unit for
severe depression and PTSD treatment. I stayed for 6 weeks; it was before they had real PTSD units. It was quite an experience
being in group therapy sessions with all types of psychiatric patients. I think out of 40 patients, 4 were being treated for
PTSD. It was my first time being in such a place. To cut it to the quick, I faked my way out. The one positive event I can
recall from this experience was the authorization of outpatient treatment for a private psychiatrist. He started me on the
medicine I needed, and in a month my depression started to lift. Little by little I was able to function, and get back to
working hard in group therapy. Now I had the medication, the group, 2 one on one counselors, and The Organization of Vietnam
Veterans. My cup was full, and little by little things started looking a lot better.
The OVV was strong in those
years and is still in existence today. Most are a great bunch of guys. We had parades, picnics, reunions, and camaraderie
was at an all time high. This went on for a few years, everyone's families were all involved, the kids all played together,
and everything seamed to be flowing like a river.
Another turning point: I was really getting burned out on everything
being focused on Vietnam, but I hung in there for about ten years. The New York City Welcome Home Parade. It was the big one,
and as it turns out it was my last one. The energy of the crowd was of celebration at it's highest, and for some it was
the beginning of their journey on the long road home.
We started in Brooklyn, at the beginning of the bridge. They
closed the bridge, the city stopped for a couple hours and I went on the parade of my life. At the beginning an active duty
Army Captain said no wheelchairs over the bridge. There was a bunch of us in chairs, we looked at him an exchanged some Vietnam
sayings and gestures, and off we went on the ride of a lifetime. I
knew as soon as I hit the bridge why no wheelchairs
were aloud, but it was always the thrill of challenges like The Brooklyn Bridge, that have kept me going all these years.
The bridge has expansion joints that are steel fingers with sharp edges about one inch apart. If your wheel happened to get
stuck you would be in a world of hurt, but there were enough able bodied men that were just as psyched, and if there were
a problem they would have carried my chair to the end of the parade route. The bridge also has steel spikes for traction;
each spike is about one half to three quarters inches in length. I had a new pair of tires on my chair and by the time we
hit Manhattan I must have worn six months of life off the tread.
The canyon of hero's is the name given
to the street we were on. There was so much ticker tape coming down I would get a four foot high ball of paper in front of
my chair. The guys from OVV that went with me would help me get cleaned off so we could keep going. I kept looking up and
hoping that no one would throw a computer or something else heavy out of the windows of the giant buildings. On we went people
cheering, police blockades, police on horses. It was at that time I wish every veteran that went to Vietnam could be there
to feel the energy and the empathy from the crowds of people. Just imagine how sweet it would have been if the politicians
would have let us finish winning the war, instead of making us withdraw and feel like losers. But History is history and we
must continue no mater how much pain is involved.
By the time we reached the New York City Vietnam Veteran Memorial,
"The Wall of Letters", my butt was dragging, but I made it to the end. The Wall was at end of a parade that made
me feel life, feel pain, but most of all it made me feel whole again, a human being, not just some expendable damaged U.S.
Government number.
The memorial is at the end of Wall St. and Water St. The message is so powerful you that must
go with a group or your family. The letters are from veterans written home while serving in Vietnam. Every letter on the monument
is so full of Vietnam emotions that it brings you to tears. I could finally cry again, something I could never do until that
moment. I had tears before at the Washington D.C. Wall, but not like this. It was like I was finally home. I made a promise
to myself that this was my last parade, and it was time to start to learn how to live life again.
I still have
flash backs, fits of rage, bad nightmares, but most of all the guilt. Perhaps that is the one symptom that will never go away.
I still get all of the symptoms, but through all the years of therapy, I have learned to live with my PTSD, and not let it
take over my soul like it did when I didn't have the tools to fight back. I said it before and I will say it again, stop
the drinking and the substance abuse, get on the right medication, and go to therapy, so you too, can learn how to exist with
the demons of war. I have to say, if it weren't for my loving wife of 23 years, and my children, I probably wouldn't
be sitting here writing this text. That perhaps, is my ace in the hole. I know there are many men who are homeless, single,
divorced, and just alone out there going through this process. There are trained professionals out there that can help, the
VA has special PTSD treatment centers that are excellent, but you must be willing to take the first step: To the long journey
home.
This is dedicated to my wife and children for helping me learn to live life again.
T. Evans wrote
the above article.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MESSAGE FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL From The Other Side
. . .Thanks For Remembering . . . At first there was no place for us to go until someone put up that
Black Granite Wall. Now, everyday and night, my Brothers and my Sisters wait to see the many people from places afar file
in front of this Wall. Many stopping briefly and many for hours and some that come on a regular basis. It was hard at first,
not that it's gotten any easier, but it seems that many of the attitudes towards that Vietnam war we were involved in
have changed. I can only pray that the ones on the other side have learned something, and more Walls as this one, needn't
be built. Several members of my unit, and many that I did not recognize, have called me to The Wall
by touching my name engraved upon it. The tears aren't necessary, but are hard even for me to hold back. Don't feel
guilty for not being with me, my Brothers. This was my destiny as it is yours, to be on that side of The Wall. Touch The Wall,
my Brothers, so that we can share in the memories that we had. I have learned to put the bad memories aside and remember only
the pleasant times that we had together. Tell our other Brothers out there to come and visit me, not to say Goodbye but to
say Hello and be together again even for a short time. . . and to ease that pain of loss that we all still share. Today, an irresistible and loving call summons me to The Wall. As I approach, I can see an elderly lady . . . and
as I get closer, I recognize her...It's Momma! As much as I have looked forward to this day, I have also dreaded it, because
I didn't know what reaction I would have. Next to her, I suddenly see my wife and immediately think how hard it must have
been for her to come to this place, and my mind floods with the pleasant memories of 30 years past. There's a young man
in a military uniform standing with his arm around her...My God!...he has to be my son! Look at him trying to be the man without
a tear in his eye. I yearn to tell him how proud I am, seeing him standing tall, straight and proud in his uniform. Momma comes closer and touches The Wall, and I feel the soft and gentle touch I had not felt in so many years. Dad
has crossed to this side of The Wall, and through our touch, I try to convey to her that Dad is doing fine and is no longer
suffering or feeling pain. I see my wife's courage building as she sees Momma touch The Wall and she approaches and lays
her hand on my waiting hand. All the emotions, feelings and memories of three decades past flash between our touch and I tell
her that. . .it's alright. . . carry on with your life and don't worry about me . . . . I can see as I look into her
eyes that she hears and a big burden has been lifted from her on wings of understanding. I watch as they lay flowers and other
memories of my past. My lucky charm that was taken from me and sent to her by my CO . . . a tattered and worn teddy bear that
I can barely remember having as I grew up as a child. . .and several medals that I had earned and were presented to my wife.
One is the Combat Infantry Badge that I am very proud of, and I notice that my son is also wearing this medal. I had earned
mine in the jungles of Vietnam and he had probably earned his in the deserts of Iraq. I can tell that they are preparing to
leave, and I try to take a mental picture of them together, because I don't know when I will see them again. I wouldn't
blame them if they were not to return, and can only thank them that I was forgotten. My wife and Momma
near The Wall for one final touch, and so many years of indecision fear and sorrow are let go. As they turn to leave, I feel
my tears that had not flowed for so many years, form as if dew drops on the other side of The Wall. They slowly move away
with only a glance over their shoulders. My son suddenly stops and slowly returns. He stands straight
and proud in front of me and snaps a salute. Something draws him near The Wall and he puts his hand upon etched stone and
touches my tears that had formed dew drops on the face of The Wall . . . and I can tell that he senses my presence and the
pride and love I have for him. He falls to his knees and the tears flow from his eyes and I try my best to reassure him that
it's alright, and the tears do not make him less of a man. As he moves back wiping the tears from his eyes he silently
mouths, God Bless you, Dad....God Bless, YOU, Son . . . we WILL meet someday, but in the meanwhile, go on your way. . . there
is no hurry . . . there is no hurry at all. As I see them walk off in the distance, I yell out to THEM
and EVERYONE there today, as loud as I can: THANKS FOR REMEMBERING!. . . and
as others on this side of The Wall join in, I notice that the U.S. Flag, Old Glory, that so proudly flies in front
of us everyday, is flapping and standing proudly straight out in the wind from our gathering numbers
this day and we shout again, and . . . again, and again T H A N K S F O R R E M E M B E R I N G! T H A N K S FOR R E M E M B E R I N G! T H A N K S FOR REMEMBERING! THANKS F O R REMEMBERING! THANKS FOR REMEMBERING! From The Other Side . . .Thanks For Remembering . . . by: APVNV Pat (Beanie) Camunes D/4/31 196th Lt. Inf. Bde TayNinh 12/66-4/67 TamKy 4/67-12/67 Copyright
(c) 1998
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What Is A Vietnam Veteran? A Conversation with, Tom Smallwood, a Fellow Marine Brother A HUMP TOWARD MEANING Vietnam Veterans are men and women. We are dead or alive, whole or maimed,
sane or haunted. We grew from our experiences or we were destroyed by them or we struggle to find some place in between. We lived through hell or we had a pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were Army,
Navy, Marines, Air Force, Red Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of us enlisted to fight for God
and Country, and some were drafted. Some were gung-ho, and some went kicking and screaming. Some went to avenge a friend. Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad bit--or a great bit--closer to death than most people like to
think about. If Vietnam vets differ from others, perhaps it is primarily in the fact perhaps that many
of you never saw the enemy or recognized him or her. You heard gunfire and mortar fire but rarely looked into enemy eyes.
Those who did, like folks who encounter close combat anywhere and anytime, are often haunted for life by those eyes, those
sounds, those electric fears that ran between ourselves, our enemies, and the likelihood of death for one of us. Or we get
hard, callused, tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch then you die. But most of us remember
and get twitchy, worried, sad. We are crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed, wary, homeless, and drunk. We are Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals downtown. We are housewives, grandmothers,
and church deacons. We are college professors engaged in the rational pursuit of the truth about the
history or politics or culture of the Vietnam experience. And we are sleepless. Often sleepless. We pushed paper; we pushed shovels. We drove jeeps, operated bulldozers, built bridges; we toted machine
guns through dense brush, deep paddy, and thorn scrub. We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and rice.
Or C-rations. Or steaks and Budweiser. We did our time in high mountains drenched by endless monsoon
rains or on the dry plains or at the most beautiful beaches in the world. We wore berets, bandanna's,
flop hats, and steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas, rash and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria anyway. We got shots constantly but have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent our nights
on cots or shivering in foxholes filled with waist-high water or lying still on cold wet ground, our eyes imagining Charlie
behind every bamboo blade. Or we slept in hotel beds in Saigon or barracks in Thailand or in cramped ships' berths at
sea. We feared we would die or we feared we would kill. We simply feared, and often we still do. We hate the war or believe it was the best thing that ever happened to us. We blame
Uncle Sam or Uncle Ho and their minions and secretaries and apologists for every wart or cough or tic of an eye. We wonder if Agent Orange got us. Mostly--and this I believe with all my heart--mostly, we wish we had not been so
alone. Some of us went with units; but many, probably most of us, were civilians one day, jerked up
out of "the world," shaved, barked at, insulted, humiliated, de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix radios, to drive
trucks. We went, put in our time, and were equally ungraciously plucked out of the morass and placed
back in the real world. But now we smoked dope, shot skag, or drank heavy. Our
wives or husbands seemed distant and strange. Our friends wanted to know if we shot anybody. And life went on, had been going on, as if we hadn't been there, as if Vietnam was a topic of political conversation
or college protest or news copy, not a matter of life and death for tens of thousands. Vietnam vets
are people just like you. We served our country, proudly or reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us different--what makes us Vietnam vets--is something we understand, but we are afraid nobody else will.
But we appreciate your asking. Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige and shades of gray. Our ancestors came from Africa, from Europe, and China. Or they crossed the Bering Sea Land Bridge in the last Ice
Age and formed the nations of American Indians, built pyramids in Mexico, or farmed acres of corn on the banks of Chesapeake
Bay. We had names like Rodriguez and Stein and Smith and Brown. We were Americans,
Australians, Canadians, and Koreans; most Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese. We were farmers, students,
mechanics, steelworkers, nurses, and priests when the call came that changed us all forever. We had
dreams and plans, and they all had to change...or wait. We were daughters and sons, lovers and poets,
beatniks and philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were rich and poor but mostly poor. We were educated or not, mostly not. We grew up in slums, in shacks, in duplexes, and bungalows
and houseboats and hooch's and ranches. We were cowards and heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one
moment and heroes the next. Many of you have never seen Vietnam. You waited at home for those you loved.
And for some of you, your worst fears were realized. For others, your loved ones came back but never
would be the same. We came home and marched in protest marches, sucked in tear gas, and shrieked our
anger and horror for all to hear. Or we sat alone in small rooms, in VA hospital wards, in places where
only the crazy ever go. We are Republicans, Democrats, Socialists, and Confucians and Buddhists and
Atheists--though as usually is the case, even the atheists among us sometimes prayed to get out of there alive. We are hungry, and we are sated, full of life or clinging to death. We are injured, and we
are curers, despairing and hopeful, loved or lost. We got too old too quickly, but some of us have
never grown up. We want, desperately, to go back, to heal wounds, revisit the sites of our horror.
Or we want never to see that place again, to bury it, its memories, its meaning. We want to forget,
and we wish we could remember. Despite our differences, we have so much in common. There are few of
us who don't know how to cry, though we often do it alone when nobody will ask "what's wrong?" We're
afraid we might have to answer. If you want to know what a Vietnam veteran is, get in your car next
weekend or bum a friend with a car to drive you. Go to Washington. Go to the
Wall. There may be hundreds there. Watch them. Listen to them. Go touch the Wall with them. Rejoice a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a lot. We are Vietnam Veterans
and after 30 years, I think I am beginning to understand what that means. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- If Tomorrow starts without me....
A few
weeks ago a woman teacher was killed in an auto accident. She was very, very well liked, so the school systems shut down for her funeral and it was on the news and so on.
On the day the workers came back to work, they found this poem in their e-mail that the deceased woman had sent on Friday before she left for home.
If tomorrow
starts without me, And I'm not there to see, If the sun should rise and find your eyes all filled with
tears for me; I wish so much you wouldn't cry the way you did today, While thinking of the many things,
we didn't get to say. I know how much you love me, As much as I love you, And each time that you think
of me, I know you'll miss me too; But when tomorrow starts without me, Please try to understand, That
an angel came and called my name, And took me by the hand, And said my place was ready, In heaven far above, And that I'd have to leave behind; All those I dearly love. But as I turned to walk away, A tear fell
from my eye For all my life, I'd always thought, I didn't want to die. I had so much to live for, So
much left yet to do, It seemed almost impossible, That I was leaving you. I thought of all the yesterdays, The good ones and the bad, I thought of all the love we shared, And all the fun we had. If I could relive
yesterday, Just even for a while, I'd say good-bye and kiss you And maybe see you smile. But then
I fully realized, That this could never be, For emptiness and memories, Would take the place of me. And
when I thought of worldly things, I might miss come tomorrow, I thought of you, and when I did, My heart was
filled with sorrow. But when I walked through heaven's gates, I felt so much at home. When God looked down
and smiled at me, From His great golden throne, He said, " This is eternity, And all I've promised you." Today your life on earth is past, But here life starts anew. I promise no tomorrow, But today will always last, And since each day's the same way, There's no longing for the past. You have been so faithful, So trusting
and so true. Though there were times you did some things, You knew you shouldn't do. But you have been
forgiven, And now at last you're free. So won't you come and take my hand, And share my life with me? So when tomorrow starts without me, Don't think we're far apart, For every time you think of me, I'm
right here, in Your heart.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MY SON
This is great,
take a moment to read it, it will make your day!
The ending will surprise you.
Take my Son
A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael.
They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.
When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went
to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply
for his only son.
About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood
at the door with a large package in his hands.
He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier
for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in
the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art." The young man held out this package.
"I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."
The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the
way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own
eyes welled up with tears He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never
repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."
The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time
visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he
had collected.
The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential
people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.
On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with
this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"
There was silence.
Then a voice in the
back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one."
But the auctioneer persisted.
"Will somebody bid for this painting. Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"
Another voice angrily.
"We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"
But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"
Finally,
a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10
for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford
"We have $10, who will bid $20?"
"Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters."
"$10 is the bid, won't someone
bid $20?"
The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son.
They wanted
the more worthy investments for their collections.
The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice,
SOLD for $10!"
A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now let's get on with the collection!"
The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over."
"What about
the paintings?"
"I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation
in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned.
Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings.
The man who took the son
gets everything!"
God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message
today is: "The son, the son, who'll take the son?"
Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets
everything.
FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, WHO SO EVER BELIEVETH, SHALL HAVE ETERNAL
LIFE...THAT'S LOVE
--------------------------------------------------------------------
God Belongs in Temples of Government by Lawrence Kudlow Posted Mar 11, 2005
Much has been written about
the Supreme Court case of Van Orden v. Perry, which has at its center a monument of the Ten Commandments that has stood between
the Texas State Capitol and the Texas Supreme Court in Austin since 1961. Thomas Van Orden wants to remove it. The state of
Texas wants to keep it right where it is.
The Ten Commandments should stay right where they are--in all cases.
Various monuments, structures and statues of the Ten Commandments can be found all over the United States, including some
highly visible spots in Washington, D.C. Courtesy of "God in the Temples of Government," a photo essay by Carrie
Devorah in Human Events (the crusading national conservative weekly), we are reminded of three prominent monuments in the
capital city: Moses and the Ten Commandments can be found in the rotunda of the Library of Congress, on the rear facade of
the U.S. Supreme Court and inside the Supreme Court's courtroom.
The Ten Commandments are literally chiseled
into the American way of life. But there is a campaign going on that would rid this country of any and all religious references.
This is part of the ongoing culture war that would stop religious expression in politics and the public square, even though
we remain the most religious of all the major industrial countries. Fortunately, brave people like state Atty. Gen. Greg Abbott,
who recently argued the Texas position in Van Orden v. Perry before the Supremes, want to keep it that way.
Religion
has always been central to our national identity. Religious references do not violate the First Amendment, which was never
intended to bar all religious expression or discussion from national discourse. James Madison himself, the author of the First
Amendment, was sworn in with his left hand on the Bible. So was George Washington, and, I believe, every President since.
The Ten Commandments provide the very foundation of our nation's legal code. They also make up the basis of
the moral values that thankfully guide us in our everyday lives.
I have a suspicion, however, that too many folks
forget what's on that list of commandments, or maybe never learned them in the first place. And even if we do know the
Ten Commandments by heart, it never hurts to read them through and contemplate them from time to time. So here's all 10:
1) I am the Lord thy God, thou shalt not have strange gods before me.
2) Thou shalt not take the name of
the Lord thy God in vain.
3) Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day.
4) Honor thy mother and
father.
5) Thou shalt not kill.
6) Thou shalt not commit adultery.
7) Thou shalt not steal.
8) Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.
9) Thou shalt not covet they neighbor's
wife.
10) Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods. I have a few direct questions for you: Is it such
a bad thing to think about not killing, not stealing, not lying and not committing adultery? Is it so bad to talk about honoring
one's parents? Or to think about a power greater than oneself--about God or some higher deity? Or to set aside just one
day a week as a spiritual day, separate from the material strivings of the other six days?
Attempting to live
by these moral and religious values is a worthy endeavor. No one of us is perfect--that role is for God alone. But if we strive
for better values in our day-to-day lives, if we seek to meet the age-old standards of goodness and honesty, if we try to
help our neighbors in all we do, won't we be better people, even if our imperfections cause us to fall short?
I should think that anyone who strolls the grounds of the Texas state Capitol and for one moment stops to read the Ten Commandments
on the monument that Abbott is trying to keep in place will be the better for it. Moral commandments--like most spiritual
thoughts in this day and age--seem too few and far removed from our usual toils and tribulations. But deep down inside, we
all have a desire to live as better citizens, better spouses, better parents, better co-workers and better friends.
An occasional reminder as to how to do this cannot be a bad thing. No--keeping the Ten Commandments in the public square
must perforce be a good thing.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Read this and then take a moment and Think about It??!!
This is why we shouldn't get stressed
out over the little things. After Sept. 11th, one company invited the remaining members of other companies who had been
decimated by the attack on the Twin Towers to share their available office space. At a morning meeting, the head of security
told stories of why these people were alive...... and all the stories were just:
The 'L I T T L E' things
As you might know, the head of the company got in late that day because his son started kindergarten. Another fellow
was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts. One woman was late because her alarm clock didn't go off in time. One was late because of being stuck on the NJ Turnpike because of an auto accident. One of them missed his bus. One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change. One's car wouldn't start. One went back
to answer the telephone. One had a child that dawdled and didn't! get ready as soon as he should have. One couldn't
get a taxi. The one that struck me was the man who put on a new pair of shoes that morning, took the various means to
get to work but before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. That
is why he is alive today.
Now when I am stuck in traffic, miss an elevator, turn back to answer a ringing telephone
all the little things that annoy me. I think to myself, this is exactly where God wants me to be at this very moment.
Next time your morning seems to be going wrong, the children are slow getting dressed, you can't seem to find the car
keys, you hit every traffic light, don't get mad or frustrated; God is at work watching over you.
May God continue
to bless you with all those annoying little things and may you remember their possible purpose.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
MARBLES
Babs Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged
but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn
to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't
help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are
you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger ! alla'
time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them
peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for
'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All
I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis.
She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red.
Do you have a red one like this at home?"
"Not zackley . but almost."
"Tell you
what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."
"Sure
will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she
said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to
bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do,
he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange
one, perhaps."
I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to
Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.
Several years went by, each
more rapid that the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while
I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go,
I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer
whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the
other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts .... all very professional looking.
They approached
Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the
cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one;
each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary
awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she
had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those
three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded"
them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size ... they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider
himself the richest man in Idaho."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased
husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
Moral: We will not be remembered by our
words, but by our kind deeds.
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that takes our breath.
Today ... I wish you a day of ordinary miracles..... A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself... An
unexpected phone call from an old friend... Green stoplights on your way to work... The fastest line at the grocery store...
A good sing-along song on the radio. Your keys right where you left them.
They say it takes a minute to find a
special person, an hour to appreciate them, a day to love them, but an entire life to forget them.
------------------------------------------------------------------
A young man learns what's most
important in life from the guy next door.
It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College,
girls, career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clear across the country in pursuit of his dreams. There,
in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son.
He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.
Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser
died last night. The funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly
remembering his childhood days. "Jack, did you hear me?"
"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you.
It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.
"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing! He'd reminisce about
the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," Mom told him.
"I loved that
old house he lived in," Jack said.
"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to
make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.
"He's the one who taught me carpentry,"
he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he
thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.
As busy as he was, he kept his
word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of
his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.
The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped
by to see the old house next door one more time.
Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like
crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held
memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly.
"What's wrong, Jack?"
his Mom asked.
"The box is gone," he said
"What box?" Mom asked.
"There
was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd
ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.
It was gone. Everything about the house was
exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.
"Now
I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said.! "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home,
Mom."
It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered
a note in his mailbox. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the
next three days," the note read.
Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and
looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his
attention. "Mr. Harold Belser" it read. Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside
was the gold box and an envelope Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.
"Upon my death, please
forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped
to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful
gold pocket watch.
Running his fingers slow! ly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover. Inside he
found these words engraved:
"Jack, Thanks for your time! -Harold Belser."
"The thing
he valued most...was...my time."
Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared
his appointments for the next two days. "Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.
"I need some time to
spend with my son," he said.
"Oh, by the way, Janet...thanks for your time!"
"Life
is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away,"
Think about this. You may not realize it, but it's 100% true.
1. At least 2 people in this world love you
so much they would die for you.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
3. A smile
from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
4. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you
before they go to sleep.
5. You mean the world to someone.
6. If not for you, someone may not be living.
7. You are special and unique.
8. When you think you have no chance of getting what you want, you probably
won't get it, but if you trust God to do what's best, and wait on His time, sooner or later, you will get it or something
better.
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good can still come from it.
10. When you
think the world has turned its back on you, take a look: you most likely turned your back on the world.
11. Someone
that you don't even know exists loves you.
12. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the
rude remarks.
13. Always tell someone how you feel about them; you ! will feel much better when they know and you'll
both be happy.
14. If you have a great friend, take the time to let them know that they are great.
------------------------------------------
A DIFFERENT CHRISTMAS POEM The
embers glowed softly, and in their dim light, I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight. My
wife was asleep, her head on my chest, My daughter beside me, angelic in rest. Outside the
snow fell, a blanket of white, transforming the yard to a winter delight. The sparkling lights in the
tree I believe, completed the magic that was Christmas Eve. My eyelids were heavy, my breathing
was deep, Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep. In perfect contentment, or so it would seem, So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream. The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too
near, But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear. Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know, Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow. My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to
hear, And I crept to the door just to see who was near. Standing out in the cold and the dark of the
night, a lone figure stood, his face weary and tight. A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty
years old, Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold. Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled, standing watch over me, and my wife and my child. "What are you doing?" I asked without
fear, "Come in this moment, it's freezing out here! Put down your pack, brush the snow from
your sleeve, You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!" For barely a moment I
saw his eyes shift, Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts.. To the window that danced with
a warm fire's light. Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right, I'm out here by
choice. I'm here every night." "It's my duty to stand at the front of the line, That separates you from the darkest of times. No one had to ask or beg or implore me, I'm
proud to stand here like my fathers befor
|