Burning It Up

I will begin my project with a story about myself. I am SFC Matthew Hopkins. I have served in the Virginia Army National Guard since 1988.This story took place during Desert Storm. I was serving as a young Specialist hauling fuel and vital supplies for the combat troops prior to the onslaught of the ground war. We spent weeks on the road without a shower or the water to shave. This made the time we spent at our LOG base extra special. We could sleep on a cot instead of the hood of a vehicle and get a well-deserved shower. It also shows that old soldiers don’t spring from the bowels of Hell. We all start off as a young dumb soldier.

 

            The ground war had not started at the time. Our platoon had spent countless days ferrying fuel to key points along the Iraq border. This was in preparations for the push into enemy territory. The only water that we carried was for drinking. I don’t think I had had an actual shower in almost three weeks when we returned to our base. A dark green cloud of stench followed me as I drug my gear to our squad tent. All I could think about was some much needed sleep. I tossed my gear down on the pallet that served as my floor without any fanfare. Military gear and clothing spilled out like a child’s Legos. Ignoring my mess, I flopped face first onto the tight canvas cot. I would kill one of my soldiers for that kind of behavior today. Your gear gets taken care of before you rest. It could save your life if kept in good working order.

            Unfortunately for my younger self, my squad leader had the mentality then that I do now. He was a left over from the Vietnam War and knew better than I did. He didn’t see the practicality of my actions. His experiences had taught him my actions were reckless. It was his job to correct that action. My eyes had barely closed when I felt a size 11 boot kicking my foot. “Hoppy get your sorry ass up off that bunk and get your gear squared away. You never know when the next run might come down the line.”

            The retort I had died in my mouth before I could ever let it go. He stood there with his hands on his hips glaring down at me. He was the spitting image of my mother when she was pissed off at me. That was minus the breasts and dress, of course. You didn’t argue with your mother after all. I looked around at my buddies for some support. There was a dim hope that they would back me up. That idea crashed and burned. Each of them avoided eye contact with me. Somehow, they all had turned into G.I. Joe. Each man in my squad began to clean and put away their gear hurriedly. None of them wanted to be the next one called out. My job as the sacrificial lamb had been fulfilled. I did the only thing any other soldier would do in my place. I grumbled incoherently under my breath, sat up, and began to clean all my gear.  

            It took us almost three hours to get things right. First, it was weapons maintenance. Weapons come before anything else in the Army. If you have never cleaned a rifle that has survived 2 sandstorms, you are lucky. The sand in Saudi Arabia was extra nasty. The sand wasn’t that course big stuff most people experience at the beach. It was a fine baby powder dust. Small particles lodged in places that I didn’t even know a rifle had. There was no way to keep it from permeating everything. I used 2 old t-shirts and a pair of boxers getting it all cleaned to pass inspection. Don’t judge me! Old military boxers are better used for cleaning than wearing.

            Once the equipment was prepped, it was time to take care of personal stuff. Laundry was next on the list. We hadn’t found a 24 hour dry cleaner. There were no washers and dryers in the desert. At least, there weren’t any for us normal people. The only option left to us was doing it by hand. I’m not sure who came up with the method we decided to use. All I know is that it worked fairly well. Several of us put all of our dirty uniforms in a large metal trash can. No, we didn’t toss a match in after. Although, that might have been a good idea. The stench from them could have been used for chemical warfare.  We added water and some powdered detergent. Someone had come appropriated a large metal pole, a boat paddle would have been better. Since there were no boat available in the desert, we used the pole to stir the clothes like an agitator in a washing machine.

            Each individual took a turn stirring our cauldron of clothes. Images of a bad take on the witches from Macbeth always runs through my head when I think about it. Our witches were dressed in camo, smoking cigarettes as we took turns stirring. A turn of 5 to 10 minutes was about all anyone could handle. Wet clothes are extremely heavy and dense. We stirred, poked, and prodded the uniforms until the water was a dark oily substance. As soldiers bored silly do, we made a game out of it. A stop watch appeared like magic. It became a contest to see who could stir it the longest. The water eventually looked like a weak coffee with nuggets of creamer floating in it. That was the signal to put everything in the rinse cycle.

            The rinse cycle consisted of a second garbage can filled with the cleanest water we could find. Most people wouldn’t use the water we had to even water their gardens. It smelled funny and was processed from a military water purification plant. Despite it being ‘purified,’ we were still warned to not drink it. That water was only for bathing and cleaning. Only bottled water was fit for consumption. You have to love the military way of doing things. Our ‘purified’ H2O was stored in a 5000 gallon tanker. The tanker was kept on site by the shower. There was no way we were using the drinking water for cleaning. The good stuff was worth its weight in gold.

            We dumped several 5 gallon cans of the water into the fresh can. Each soldier took time about pulling a piece of the clothing from the dirty water. That garment was then dunked into our cleaner batch of liquid. The preferred method required pushing to the bottom of the can repeatedly. Once the soldier felt that it was rinsed to a semi-clean state, two soldiers took ahold of it from different ends. Twisting it like crazy was the best method for ringing the water out of it. It is the same method used by teenagers to ring out a wet towel at the pool. After the water had stopped dripping from the pretzelized uniform, they were hung on a clothes line. The line was constructed from 550 cord. It stretched between the large squad tents we used. The sun died everything in less than an hour. That was to be expected when temperature was 100+ most days.

            Satisfied that all the maintenance on all forms of gear had been done, it was time to take care of some much needed down time. There was nothing else that our Squad Leader could complain about. We all laughed and joked as we headed back into the tent for a long long sleep. Staff Sergeant Wiggins, my squad leader, was able to find that one thing that we had missed. The man had no compassion for poor tired troops. “You boys need to get you a shower before you lay down. It smells like someone let a herd of pigs loose in here.”

            Being the young dumb aggravated smart ass I was at the time, I had to open my mouth. “Come on Ralph, we haven’t showered in three weeks. What is a few more hours? Besides, if you got out of the tent every once and while and sweated a bit you wouldn’t notice it as much”

            That sealed my fate. Never call the Senior Sergeant in your tent a lazy bastard. Definitely, don’t use his first name when you are insulting him in that fashion.

            “Really Specialist,” he said with a smirk. “Since you feel that way you can be the last to take a shower then. In the meantime, you are going to make sure the showers are filled and warm for the others first.”

            Open mouth, insert whole leg! It is an art form. Few can master the retort that will land you in trouble like I did. The gasps and snickers that went through the tent testified to my skills.

            I started to make another comment, but thought better of it. He could have done far worse. I wasn’t certain if anyone had been assigned shit burning duty. My younger self didn’t want any part of that. Taking care of the showers was like hitting the lottery in comparison. Filling a water tank and lighting a heater was much more desirable than setting human excrement on fire. None of us liked standing over that mess. It was made worse by the fact that an individual was required to stir the flaming mass with a stick until it all burned off. Anyone that has been stuck on that detail can tell you, it is not worth whatever you did.

            Slowly, I walked the 50 or so yards to the shower. Like any young soldier, I kicked rocks and called down the curses of the gods upon the head of my squad leader. A lightning strike was too good for him. Boils and pestilence would have been a fitting punishment as far as I was concerned. My mind was focused on the horrors that would be inflicted to him, not the job at hand. Like an automaton, I filled all of the necessary tanks. This was a pain when considering how the shower was constructed.  It was a wooden frame with pallets for the floor. The sides were made from thin plywood and an old canvas tent tied around it. A metal welded tank rested on the top of structure. It was filled with water and gravity fed water to the 6 shower heads below. The person on this detail had to climb up a ladder nailed to the side repeated to complete all the tasks for hot showers.

            There were no electric water heaters in the desert, at least not for us normal soldiers. We had to use submersion heaters. That is an archaic device. It was basically a gas fuel tank and exhaust pipe that set down in the water to heat it. There was a chamber at the bottom of the device where the fuel burned to heat the water. A person would start a small trickle of fuel, preferably a slow drip. This gathered in the bottom of the sealed chamber. There wasn’t a simple button to push for ignition. It was ignited by tossing a match in as the gas dripped slowly in. It wasn’t normally that dangerous to light.

            That day, was much different. My own desire to daydream and focus on my own misery became my undoing. That combined with someone trying to be proactive created all the factors needed for a disaster. The only way the heater became dangerous was if you allowed too much fuel to gather in the chamber. I was not focusing. I failed to notice that someone had already filled the chamber with fuel. That was a mistake I would pay for. The fuel began to drip into the chamber. Certainly I was still cursing as I struck the match and tossed it in.

            Every god I had called upon was chuckling at me then. I’m certain they were even taking bets on the outcome. My world erupted in a flash of light and a roar. Luckily for me, the heater didn’t explode. However, a giant fireball shot out. Flames, heat and light engulfed me. There was a moment where I was weightless suspended above it all. The next moment I was flying off the top of the shower. A rope holding the canvas around the structure may have saved me from serious harm. Somehow my leg became entangled in it. My smoldering self stopped only inches from the ground. I dangled like a worm wigging on a hook while parts of the canvas and plywood started to burn.

            Sometimes it is good to have your buddies close by in a disaster. There are other times when you wish you were alone. This was one of those instances where it was a mixed blessing. My buddies came running out of the tent. The noise and my screaming probably had something to do with their curiosity. Several of them rushed over to try and help me. Others rushed to grab cameras and take pictures of my dilemma. Facebook wasn’t even a thought then. People had to have pictures to share the moment. I’m sure I would have laughed and took picture too, if it had been someone else dangling there. A person with their eyebrows and mustached burnt off screaming for help can be rather amusing.

            One of the guys pulled out a pocket knife and cut me loose. I had only a moment to view the destruction wrought by my actions. Someone screamed, “Put that Damned fire out!”

            Being a man of action, and feeling responsible for the fire, I sprang into action. The closest fire extinguisher was in the motor pool. I sprinted there, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the first vehicle. Some of you smarter people are already asking, “Why?” It was the heat of the moment. Putting out the fire was all I had on my mind. I wasn’t a trained firefighter, after all.

 I had the pin out and ready to go as I arrived back on site. The canvas was mostly gone. Several pieces of wood were charred. There was no time to waste. I let loose with a cloud of chemicals. I sprayed back and forth like a madman. One extinguisher was not enough. Someone handed me a second one to finish the job. A cloud of fumes and smoke arouse into the air while I stepped back to catch my breath.

            This is where the rest of you go, “Aha!” I was proud of my quick thinking when a booming voice came across my shoulder. It caused my satisfied grin to fade “Quick thinking Hoppy. You know you could have used the water from the tanker.”

            My Platoon Sergeant stood towering over me. Sergeant First Class Glenn Day was a mountain of a man. He was another one of those Vietnam Veterans who had the presence that demanded respect. His smile made me feel so small and stupid. My heroics were lost in that moment. It was that look that a parent gives a child when they have done something wrong that they are proud of.

            Slowly, I turned following his gaze. There sat the 5000 gallon water tanker just a few feet away. Water trickled out of the end of the hose. The hose lay where I had tossed it after filling the water tank. The hose was just inches from the shower. It was one of those moments when you just want to do that palm slap to your own head. All I could do was hang my head and stare sheepishly and the sand blowing across. Someone snickered. That caused someone to laugh. That laugh caused others to start laughing. Before long we were all laughing. The mirth was one of those long heart felt sessions soldiers have. They come after something serious as just happened, and everyone made it out alive.

            Everyone started to wander off as the laughter died down. Things are only interesting for so long. I was standing there looking at the carnage I had created. My Platoon Sergeant placed one of those big paws of his on my shoulder. There was some humor still in his voice as he spoke to me. “You know you have to rebuild it, don’t ya.”

            “Roger that Sergeant,” I replied. There was no joy in Muddville that day.

            He chuckled again, “First go get checked out. You look like a sun burnt hairless rat right now.”

            It took a few minutes for them to pronounce me fit for duty. That was after all of the laughter died down. The laughter had started when an individual showed me what I looked like with my eyebrows and most of my mustache burned away. What are friends for, if not to laugh at your misery? My friends kept up the laughter as I rebuilt the showers the next few days. Soldiers from all the platoons sat about shouting advice and laughing with each misstep I had during the reconstruction. I think I called them every name I could imagine during that period. I couldn’t stay mad at them. I understand I was their moment of entertainment during a time of extreme stress.

The Bane of the Bald Man

I am writing this for my friend Jamie Cantrell. He reminded me of this terrible problem.

First of all, this is not a vanity piece I am writing for myself. I have been asked several times to write about the epidemic that has hit the men of the United States Military. More specifically, the Senior Non-Commissioned Officers that prowl the ranks and file. This tragic disease seams to affect a majority of the men without any thought to race, religion or ethnic origins. This silent stalker is known as Male Pattern Baldness.

 I am not a scientist that can give you a long explanation why so many of these gallant souls are affected by this tragedy. I have thought about it in depth, due to the fact that it has been a problem for me for almost 30 years now. The first school of thought: Soldiers just have way too much testosterone in their systems. This could be true. Soldiers are required to be super aggressive and ready to destroy the enemies of the nation. The NCO’s have to have even more so that they can control the younger soldiers. Usually, it is harder to control them in garrison than in a combat. Too many young men and women think it is a good idea to sneak out of a third story window to get more beer. That isn’t so bad, but there is always that one. They do it wearing combat boots and a sheet. Screaming ‘I am Bacchus, God of Wine.’

My father, a veteran, claimed it was the hats and helmets that we always had to wear. He claimed that the constant friction and lack of oxygen killed the hair follicles. I have to disagree with the Old Man. Like most young soldiers, I was always taking off my headgear or wearing a bandana to protect the skull. This of course was when there were none of my Sergeants around. Back in my day, they would have strangled me with the bandana or beat me with the helmet. Not to the death of course, that would require too much paperwork. I have learned that as I climbed the ranks.

I even had one of my fellow soldiers claim it was an experiment from the government. They had put something in the endless inoculations that the military had given us. He wasn’t sure what the experiment was about, just that it was being performed on us. I don’t put much past the government. That is one I shrugged off. He did retire early from the Army. Now, he draws one of those special checks from the VA.

It doesn’t matter about the reason. What matters is how you treat these poor souls. Remember, we have many problems you do not have. If we are off duty, hats are something that we forgo a lot. I will guarantee that every year each of one of our special group receive a sunburn like you have never experienced. There is nothing worse than a sunburnt head. It is a pain like you have never had before. Additionally, there is the problem of the peeling skin as it heals. That makes a person look like an alien from the show ‘V.’ The Snake people are taking over!

The winter holds a different problem for us. God help you if you forget your wool cap in a snow or ice storm. A sheet of ice will form on the top of the old noggin. This isn’t so bad. What really sucks is when you go inside. The cap begins to melt. Ice water will slowly run down your neck and down your back. The ‘Ice Challenge’ has nothing on this. You are freezing the rest of the day. Nothing but a steaming hot bath can solve the issue.

Finally, there are all the people that think it is good luck to rub your head. A bald head is not a Buddha Belly people. In fact it can be very bad luck for you. The wrong bald man may take it as an insult. The result could be a dislocated soldier. Be nice and ask before you touch. The life you save may be your own.

Please keep us in mind as you brush your hair this morning. You may complain about all the hair care products you have to use, or the time you have to take to look your best. We do not have that option. It is a simple was and go. The only hair care product we may have is a can of Turtle Wax.’

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I read another article today by an individual who is afraid of having returning combat veterans in their neighborhood. They have a fear that the individual will snap and wreak havoc upon their neighbors. I am sorry that we individuals who served and sacrificed so much, are a nightmare that keeps these individuals awake at night.  Instead of cowering and clutching your children to your breast when we pass, just say “Thank You.” You wouldn’t have that giant SUV and over priced home if that man our woman had not stood the line while you sat at home watching Oprah.

Instead of worrying about what could happen, think about how that soldier could be a benefit to your community. Neighborhood watch goes to a new level with vets around. You know that your children are safe playing in the neighborhood when they are on watch. Children are more important to soldiers than you might think. Even in combat zones, we give them candy and presents. Many soldiers have died trying to save the life of a child, even of our enemies. The health and welfare of a child is more important than our own. Additionally, we are ever vigilant for danger. It is ingrained in us from having to survive. Any strange people, or vehicle, will quickly send up red flags. Remember, we are able to run up mountains with an extra 80 pounds of gear on. That weirdo on the playground has no chance.

Occasionally, communities have problems with peeping toms, flashers, and other such wierdos. It is hard for the police to always catch these pervs. Have your husband’s go over and buy the monster a few cold beers. They can explain the problem and ask his help. I’ll bet they have a wife, daughters, or even a mother. I am sure they will love the excitement of the idea. We’ll never turn down an opportunity to cammo up and hide in the darkness. It gets even better because there is a chance of jumping from concealment and scaring some dirt bag to death. I’ll apologize early for any traps your husband may trip while walking the dog at night. Those flare trip wires will give you a headache. Just make sure your spouses don’t ask to help. You don’t want to have to deal with a 5 A.M. boot camp going on through your streets. They can’t go to combat without training after all.

Veterans are also great for getting rid of pests as well. No, I’m not talking about you daughter’s boyfriend. There are too many laws about that. My neighbors have used me several times when a rabid groundhog, opossum, or raccoon have made an unwanted appearance. Most combat soldiers have no quam about putting down a sick animal. It is far better than the suffering it has to go through. Don’t think we missed the shot if you hear 2 shots. It’s just the training. You have to make sure it is dead and dead again. For a cold beer or bratwurst, we’ll even dispose of the carcass for you. We know some of you suburbanites are a little squeamish about that.

If you live in the country, we can even be more help. Sometimes we may go a little overboard. Don’t ask us to put up a fence without specifications. You might end up with triple strand concertina wire, a four foot tall berm, or both with a tank ditch added in for good measure. When asking us to remove a stump, make sure you specify no explosives. Without that specification, you might have a crater that you can park your truck in.

Let’s not forget those combat medics and surgeons. They are a plus to have in the neighborhood. They can treat everything from a headache to a sucking chest wound. You may say you don’t need that much experience. I beg to differ. Remember when Mr. Jones came home with lipstick on his collar at 1 A.M. Yep the medic would have when he ran out of the house screaming with that meat thermometer sticking out of his backside. Just don’t be surprised if the have you clear out a landing zone and call in for a medevac.

Veterans are not the monsters I the closet. We do have problems and issues. So does the beauty pageant mom and the workaholic dad. Don’t shoot fireworks at our homes or yell “Incoming.” We will be fine. Treat us as your neighbors and friends. All we every want is to come home and live our lives enjoying our families and working hard. Give us a smile and wave. That goes a long way.

Time to Pump You Up

As you get older, it is a good thing for you to stay in shape. My Dr. tells me that the benefits of a healthier life include a much longer life. That is definitely an idea that as appeal to me. However, there are those that would have preferred it if I had expired years ago. I just have to say, “Na Na Boo Boo. I am still here.” Heck, there was even a time when I found out that people were planning my wake. Someone had heard that I had been killed in Bosnia. Boy, were they shocked when I came home.

I do feel that I should try in shape. I am at that age now where it is harder to do so, and stay there. It will not be much longer before I reach that half century mark. I do not want to be like so many other people I have seen that get old before their time. They let those little aches and pains rule their lives. There is so much still to enjoy out there. Why would I want end up living my few remaining years sucked into a recliner watching Jeopardy. I do not want to be that Jabba the Hut person who can’t find the remote when it gets dropped in the chair beside me.

I am not working out to become some middle-aged, He-man, Sir Hunk-a-lot. There is no desire to grace the pages of GQ for this guy. That is just too much work. I enjoy lifting, but not all the other things required to achieve that status. Who wants to do 1000 sit-ups, run way too many miles, eat nothing but boiled chicken, and drink only water? What is life without some good old-fashioned fried food, long nap, and an ice cold beer? Give me bratwurst, or give me death! Yea you guessed it I’m not a vegetarian. My daughter would actually call me a meatetarian.

My desire to work out comes from two personal desires. The first reason is for my own self absorbed ego. I have to prove I am still the man I was 20 years ago. Thank God I am not any many ways. My bald backside was luck to survive those years once. The second time might be enough to give my guardian angels strokes. I want to be that 70 year old man still out having fun with life. There is this insane dream to sky dive on to the White House lawn for my 75^th birthday; wearing just a smile and a pair of American flag boxers. You cannot be weak and decrepit to do that. The Secret Service can’t be allowed to catch me that easy. What would the fun be in that?

The main reason is my three little girls. I want to bulk up and become extremely scary for when my little girls start dating. A fifty-something old man with a snow white beard does not have that intimidation factor. The dates will picture their child with a sweet Santa at Christmas. No father wants their daughters’ suitors to be relaxed and happy around them. We want them to tremble and shake fearing for their lives. A Santa with 42 inch pythons can put a little quiver in that happy thought. Cracking walnuts with those monsters will definitely make them fear a jolly old man.

There are only a few short years left until those first dates. It is time for me to get to work. I have a lot of push-ups to do. It will be a while before I bench press that Volkswagen.

The 4th, Once More

The 4^th of July is here again. Unfortunately, my job informed me that I have to work my normal shift. There will be no barbeque and fireworks for me with my family. My wife will have to take the girls to watch the show by herself again. This upset me at first. I thought, “Who deserve to enjoy the 4^th off, if not me. Come on I spent some many of them watching fireworks that were a lot more dangerous and that were aimed at me.” Then I realized, I was being a selfish whinny kid.

This holiday isn’t about beer guzzling, burning a good burger to cinders, or watching Uncle Bob blow his fingers off with an M-80. We easily forget what it is really about living our fast paced lives filled with constant entertainment and instant gratification.  As Americans, we feel that it is our right to have this time off to over indulge and be ignorant.

Maybe we should all have to sit through a history class the morning before the festivities start. Make all the radio and television stations run the same program all day. I would vote for one of my old college professors teaching a class on how this country came to be and the true reasons why we separated from the British Empire. Ask most people, I am sure that they cannot tell you the real reason. I’ll bet that they cannot name a single event that lead up to us declaring independence. Okay a few will mention the Boston Tea Party.

After the history lesson, I believe that each of our elected officials should take turns reading off all the names of every man or woman that gave their lives in service since the day we declared our independence. Once they have finished, let’s have all the leaders of each, “racially pure” group read off the names of everyone that is registered as immigrating to this country. We will only use the official records. IT will be interesting to give them lists with their ancestors highlighted.

I’m certain that will take care of all the entertainment for the day. I wish I could say it would make people think and be more reverent for the holidays we have. I would be kidding myself. Over 90% of Americans do not truly care. It is another day off and an excuse to cook out and have several cold ones with friends and family. Before you chug that 5^th beer, look at one of those little flags you have decorating that cake you bought for the festivities. What do those colors stand for?

I didn’t think most of you would know. It isn’t considered politically right to be that patriotic any more. Thank whatever deity you believe in that there are, and were, men and women that do know it. They built this country and still defend it. So shove another braut in your mouth. There are others  that “have this” for you.

We All need a Hero

I have read and heard so many people lately state that “They deserve it.” This is not from people accepting the results of some action that they took; resulting in a negative reaction. God forbid that people actually get what they deserve in life. These are the people that believe they deserve everything good in life weather they worked for it, or stepped on others to get what they want. Too bad karma doesn’t always work. There are too many that would be regulated to some dark corner of a cesspool in life. They would need a step ladder to simply climb up out of the gutter enough to even glimpse daylight.

We all know those individuals. They are born into families where an older relative amassed wealth that the rest of the family is feeding off of. They spend all their time and money partying and enjoying life. They would not spend a dollar to help a homeless family, or feed a starving child. That would cut into their cash needed to impress others in their circle. It would be a travesty if they couldn’t afford that third vacation home in whatever location is trendy this year.

Let’s not forget the people that were born poor, but who fought their way to the top of the human pyramid of success. The hated the places they came from. Their hatred was so great that they used the backs of others to reach the pinnacle of their success. Most of them have disdain for the people that helped them, and for the people the y left in the past. All they care about is reaching that next goal.

Maybe, it is time that we quit celebrating their successes. Let’s be serious. Do we really need another reality television show about spoiled little rich kids. Why read about the exploits of some ubber-rich individual that just bought a small island of the coast of Timbuktu to escape the stress of having to deal with their fans. These are not heroes that our children should emulate. Let them find people that deserve more, but who do not cry for more.

Let our youth see the beauty in that kindly old lady down the street. No one ever recognizes her, but she has been making sandwiches for the homeless for the last 20 years. She uses the money from her Social Security check and donations of others to feed others that she feels are more needy than she is. Her joy is seeing people smile when they have a meal feeling their bellies.

Support the doctors that give their time and money to help children in both the United States and in smaller countries. They buy medicines and perform surgeries for those in need. You do not hear them brag about the good they have done. They simply take their time off do what they feel needs to be done. Unfortunately, it does inconvenience people such as Ms. Fatpurse. She has to wait and extra few weeks to have her latest enhancements done. It is terrible that she may have to survive as a C for a few more weeks.

Don’t forget about all those veterans that returned home. There are many of them that are “damaged.” However, they do not complain. They try and continue to be a part of society, although in slightly different ways. Whenever you are down, think about the young soldier that lost both his legs in an explosion. He didn’t give up on life, instead he did rehab and received new legs. Now, he is running marathons with the help of artificial limbs. Tell me you are having a bad day because they got your order wrong in the drive-thru.

“Stop the Insanity!” It is time that we gave our children real heroes again. Why don’t you be their hero? I’m sure your child can picture you with a cape and tights. Okay, maybe not tights for everyone.

Coca-Catastrophie

I cannot believe that a company such as Coca Cola could even think of allowing people to sing an American song in a variety of different languages. What were the people in charge thinking? I am thoroughly shocked. How could a company that had a motto, “I would like to give the world a coke and teach them to sing in perfect harmony,” think something like that would be acceptable. Do they think we are a multiracial nation where many of our children are born from parents of diverse backgrounds?

You would think that this country was founded by people that spoke French, English, Spanish, German, Gaelic, and other languages. There wasn’t an indigenous people here that had no clue what English was when our ancestors arrived to carve out a new future for the wayward children of Europe. Were they thinking that the infrastructure of this country was created by poor immigrants from Europe and Asia? Who were all those people that came through Ellis Island? Come on Coke executives who taught you history in school? Wasn’t that subject called American History?

I think you should have talked to the Veterans of this country before you aired something like that. How many of us have ever served with someone who spoke multiple languages? Really haw many 1^st or 2^nd generation Americans do you think have served or died for this country? Do you think we have ever seen the pride in a man’s eyes when he was awarded his American Citizenship while serving this country? Soldiers have never brought husbands and wives home from these far off lands. We have shed our blood sweat and tears for the people and ideas that make this, “the land of the free and home of the brave.”

If you haven’t caught the sarcasm yet, and you think I support you for protesting Coca Cola, you are denser than I thought. Wake up simple minded America. Most of you would not have been here if some ancestor had not been considered a criminal, or religious heretic. This country was not founded by the simple ideas of Anglo-Saxon men. It was the hard work of men and women who came from the far corners of the world. They were the down trodden that sought better lives for themselves and their families. They fought and died in the wars and hardship that shaped this nation. Look at your history books.

The next time you bite into a hamburger, think where it came from. Remember these words:

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This is the America that I know and have fought for. If you do not know, that is inscribed on The Statue of Liberty. Oh yea, a Frenchman made it!