Promise ‘em Anything
This country, as a whole, owes a great debt to the men and women who served in the armed forces during dangerous times. At the very least, they should be given respect and consideration by their fellow countrymen. Unfortunately, that isn’t always the case.
Some time ago I had occasion to visit a friend, retired military, who was in the hospital. While there, I saw an incident occur which I can only hope was isolated rather than typical.
A man with the short cropped hair and craggy face of a career soldier was admitted after suffering a light stroke. He was having difficulty handling his silverware, and some orderly, still wet behind the ears, was giving him a hard time about it. He was being rude and condescending.
I learned that the man had been one of the few who had walked out of Burma with General Stillwell. And, if any American doesn’t remember what Stillwell’s troops did in Burma, he or she should brush up on recent American history, then thank God and those men that we’re still a free nation.
How dare the young punk speak to a man like that in such a manner? I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled.
It seems fashionable now for any wet-nosed kid to make fun of their elders (and betters, I might add) for any peculiarity they might have. Even though Americans of that generation struggled through a terrible depression, fought a large scale war (sometimes two or three) against dangerous enemies, and out of it all built a better world for the next generations. Anyone who thinks times are harder now than then, has a very short memory or didn't live through it.
At any rate, anyone who has ever served in the military remembers the inducements made to encourage one to make a career of it. There were many made, including the world's finest medical and dental care, but implicit in all the promises is that one would receive the respect and consideration of his fellow Americans.
Yet, too often we make heroes of millionaire sports figures and make fun of a genuine hero who put his life on the line between his country and a cruel and powerful enemy.
I don’t know that veterans of WW II vintage really expected to receive all the promises made to them when we needed them so badly, but they do deserve decent treatment during illness or other misfortune.
They don’t always get it, but they would be the first to say, “That’s life, I guess.”
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The Clothes Line
Not many folks today are familiar with the old clothes line. It has been replaced by the modern clothes dryer which is faster, easier and much more private.
Actually, the clothes line was one of the first communication devices. The first thing it did was proclaim the abilities, or lack of same, of the resident. Newcomers were quickly judged by the condition of the wash hanging on the line.
Number one, it had to be kept up off the dirt. With longer items such as sheets and pants it might call for a long wooden pole to be placed at a strategic position to keep the line from sagging and allowing the wash to drag on the ground... a no, no.
The line had to be "washed" before anything was hung on it. You took a damp cloth and went down the entire length of the line to be sure it was clean.
Socks were hung by the toes, never by the top. I don't know exactly why, that's just the way it was. And pants were always hung by the bottom cuffs never by the waistband. Shirts were always hung by the tail, never by the shoulders. I suspect that was to keep away the telltales twists on the shoulders that proclaimed that a bachelor lived there who didn't iron his shirts. Whites were to be hung with other whites and never mixed with colors in their hanging order.
Monday was the preferred day for hanging the wash. You could hang it on another weekday if necessary— but never on a weekend.
Newsflashes from the clothes line:
Fancy sheets on the line and "company" tablecloths announced the presence of overnight (at least) visitors.
A baby's birth? Quicker than the US Mail was the presence of diapers and baby clothes.
You could keep track of the children's growth by the size of the clothes on the line.
An illness inside meant extra sheets, nightclothes and maybe a bathrobe.
An empty line was a sign the family was on vacation. The return meant a full and sagging line with extra clothing from the trip.
If the wash was dingy and gray, it meant the housewife was inexperienced and didn't know... or she was slovenly and didn't care.
Now we have to find new ways to spread the word about these important matters that concern our neighbors... or more likely... we don't even bother to know.
I guess that's good for privacy if that's what a person values most. It's not so good for intimate, and caring relationships between real neighbors. I, for one miss that most.
Back then, that's just the way things were.
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The Ritual
To the handful of young joggers on the beach he was a quaint, rather pathetic figure— an old man padding along the beach to the pier which stretched out over the water. He laboriously stepped up on the pier and started down its length, a bucket of shrimp clutched in his hand.
It is late afternoon and his shadow stretches long and skinny over the wooden walkway behind him. He walks alone seemingly lost in private thought. He lifts his head and murmurs aloud, “Thank you, God.’
Then, he’s no longer alone. Dozens of white dots materialize in the sky and swoop down on him. They screech and squawk as they wing their way toward the old man. He smiles and again whispers, “Thank you, God.”
He stands there at the end of the pier tossing the shrimp, one by one, into the air. The hungry gulls snatch them in full flight until the bucket is finally empty.
As he walks back to the beach, the birds follow him, hopping along the pier until he reaches the beach stairs, then they fly away.
One of the bystanders looked at another. “Queer old duck. What do you think that’s all about?”
The man shakes his head. “Who knows? I think he does the same thing every Friday. Looks like the old coot might be a half a bubble off.”
The first man shakes his head and they both move back to their jogging trail. Neither of them has a clue as to what they have just witnessed.
The old man is known by a few of the regulars on the beach as “Old Ed.” If they only knew him better they would know his full name: Eddie Rickenbacker, the famous fighter ace of World War I, and who also served in the air corps during World War II.
On one of his flying missions in the Pacific Theater, He and his seven-man crew were forced to ditch in the ocean, stranded there on a life raft where they managed to survive the blazing sun, and circling sharks, and then they ran out of food and water hundreds of miles from land. They held a simple prayer service. They needed and asked for a miracle.
Then, Rickenbacker leaned back and pulled his cap down over his nose. Trying to conserve strength with a nap. All he could hear was the slap, slap, slap of the waves against the side of the raft.
Then, he felt something on his head. It was a seagull which had landed atop his military cap. Stealthily, he reached up and snatched the self-sacrificing bird from its perch. A quick wring of its neck and it, bones and all, made a slim meal for eight starving men.
But, it started a cycle. Its intestines were used for bait. They caught fish— more food and more bait. Using that routine, the men were able to survive 24 days at sea before they were rescued.
Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years after that experience, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that life-saving seagull and of the Divine Providence that brought it his way. That’s why on Friday afternoon he would walk to the end of that ocean pier with a bucketful of shrimp and heart full of gratitude. He never stopped saying, “Thank you.”
-END-
A Book I Think You'll Enjoy
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DonJohnson
Down In the Valley
by
Fern-Smith-Brown
A tale of romance, murder and decept
ion unfolds as the masked and cloaked, Midnight Rider—identity unknown—tirelessly conducts rescues through the underground railroad. He is aided by the beautiful young widow, Alexandra Farnsworth, Hamlet, a handsome quadroon, and Lily Graye from Shantytown.