I was really upset and not feeling very secure at all when at the Va hospital this week for an important medical appointment. Most of the clinics are in different buildings from the intake/admin building and are reached by a main exit.

Outside that door you see nice concrete walkways, shrubs and landscaping, and the closest handicapped parking spaces are right there at the curb.

Well, much to my surprise, I walked out that exit and my oh my.....a roped off construction area existed instead. I stopped in my tracks and was rather upset knowing that our many handicapped vets had no way except rutted slippery ground to TRY to get to their vehicles.

Looking up, I saw a very elderly, very big lady, try to step off the rutted dirt and almost fall. Rushing to her, I said,

"May I help you get to your car or appointment? This construction is terrible for our handicapped vets and I just may go in and B**** about this one."

"Oh no," she said, having misunderstood me, "I would never do that."

I responded, "Well I would. I'm a Vietnam Era vet and I figure I've earned the right to say just about anything to anyone. Someone is gonna get really hurt out here."

Much to my surprise she told me her life story and military history. WOWSERS !!!

Grinning ear to ear, she told me that she was in the military for 6 years and during WW2 and she is a wartime vet too.

"Too cool," said I, "We're sisters, just different wars."

Now all this is happening while I'm hanging onto her arm, walking her to her car and asking if she wants me to help her get her jacket on.

So, we stop and hug several times and she just giggled with glee and her eyes sparkled.

As she opened her car door (nice caddy !!!), she said:

"Oh, wait a minute, I want to tell you something else."

Although I was late now for this important first appt. I said,

"Sure. You have made my day. I was nervous and you are making me feel so much better. I have to go over to an appointment I'm dreading and I feel so much better now about doing it. Thanks so much."

As her story unfolded, I was just thrilled to have met her. She told me that she was one of the first, original female baseball players that the movie called "A League of Their Own" (remember Rosie O'Donnell and Madonna starred in it???!!!) was based upon.

She shared about how the coach had called her MISS FLORIDA because she was always so tanned. She was a North Carolina girl and would take a sheet and lay by the lake to get her tan.

"My, I looked good in that white baseball uniform with my dark tan. And, we were in such good shape. You should have seen how pretty our legs were."

Then quietly, she leaned over towards me, and whispered......

"Guess what else.....I turned 80 this week !!!!!"

I think I squeezed her to death with about 4 bear hugs right then and there. I told her how neat it was that I had been able to meet her and how much she had made my day.

As I walked across the street, half running to my appointment, definitely late now, I yelled over my shoulder to her:

I sure hope I'm like you when I'm 80. You are amazing. God Bless You and Thanks !!!!!!!"

Lynne L. Pierson
WAC Veteran
March 12, 2004

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

You know, the kind that you try to swallow away and it just stays there.

Cherry sent this to me yesterday by email. I sure hope I'm not duplicating another posting of it here.

------------------

I Am A Soldier

I am a soldier.
My blood permeates the soil of many countries.

I have gasped my last breath on many a desolate
stretch of beach. For you...all of you, the children who play in the parks, the mothers who watch over them, the fathers who struggle to sustain them.

There are those here who have belittled and reviled me, who have made a mockery of me and what I stand for.
You, also, have I suffered and died for.
I withstood heat, insects and disease
So the right to dissent would be yours.

I endured the pain and terror of battle and the maiming of my body to ensure that you might worship as you please.
I died in agony in order that you,
no matter who or what you are,
Have the freedom to choose your own destinies.

AND I WOULD DO IT AGAIN
because I believe in the ideals that made this country what it is today... FREE.
I love her with a deep and abiding love
that transcends mere physical pain.

I AM A SOLDIER.
Pray that I will always be there,
for if I disappear from this country, so will you.

~ Anonymous ~

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

Not Just A Name

Early morning mist still rising, visitors are few.
A quiet time of day. Big city sounds muted,
Barely encroach upon this hollowed ground.
Slowly walking, counting panels, been this way before.
41E-Line 35, there it is, I see it, a name.
Your name, carved in the cold, black, marble stone.

Stand thinking, remembering back so many years.
Before the war, happier times, high school dances,
Kicking back on the block, the Tube to NY,
Sneaking that very first beer. Just a couple of kids from
New Jersey, not a care in the world.
You were Ray then, not a name chiseled into stone.

Leaving now, but will pass this way again.
Others here to visit Ray, yes more than just a few.
High School friends, others from the Corps.
Like you, each taken early from this life.
But I swear, I will remember, the real person,
Not a name chiseled on the cold, black marble stone.

©George F. Holy
2000


RAYMOND JAMES BRERETON, PFC, USMC. Ray and I attended grammAr school and high school together.
He was in country just a little bit over three months. He died on 26 Feb 68 in Quang Tri, RVN. Ray was 20 years old.

Dear George:

You have a true gift from God and I'm honored that you would share your poetry with us.

From the heart,

MOM

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

mom, thanks for sharing the story about the lady you met. it really touched me. i meet a lot of neat bros at the va myself, although i do have to admit, i havent met any other female vets going at my local hospital yet. that is really neat that you met one of the gals who played for the women's baseball team in ww2, and also i love yer poem..just thot i'd let ya know.

DESIDERATA

The Perfect Mistake

Some times it is hard to understand the mysterious ways in which God Works................


My Mother's father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to orphanages in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what had happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading for China! The Great Depression was at its height and Grandpa had six children. He had spent $20 for those glasses that very morning. He was upset by the thought of having to buy another pair. It's not fair," he told God as he drove home in frustration. "I've been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this."

Months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak one Sunday at my grandfather's small church in Chicago. The missionary began by thanking the people for their faithfulness in supporting the orphanage. "But most of all," he said, "I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destroying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate. Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staff removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top.

The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: "Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as though they had been custom made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that." The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas. But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.

There are times we want to blame God instead of thanking him! Perhaps it is something we ought to try more often, I have to remember this in times of trial. May GOD bless your week. Look for the PERFECT mistakes. People are like tea bags- - you have to put them in hot water before you know how strong they are."


Author unknown

PTSD Daze

When the demon walks thru your mind
And twists your soul
When nightmares steals your sleep
And your memories are from Hell...

When any comforts abandon you
And thoughts produce stinging tears
When aloneness is a retreat
And heartbreak steals your smile...

When mistrust replaces friendships
And anger keeps another apart
When you're torn asunder by doubts and fears
And distrust getting too close again...

When your days seem empty
And you have lost your purpose for living
When the days of your life seems full of bitterness
And your night is so never ending long...

Words from a Wanderer of the PTSD road
Scott Insley
aka Cherry

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools

and ran to the bog. There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman's sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

"I want to repay you," said the nobleman. "You saved my son's life."

"No, I can't accept payment for what I did," the Scottish farmer replied waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer's own son came to the door of the family hovel.

"Is that your son?" the nobleman asked.

"Yes," the farmer replied proudly.

"I'll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my own son will enjoy. If the lad is anything like his father, he'll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of." And that he did. Farmer Fleming's son attended the very best schools and in time, graduated from St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

Years afterward, the same nobleman's son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia.

What saved his life this time? Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill. His son's name?

Sir Winston Churchill.

Someone once said: What goes around comes around.

Work like you don't need the money.

Love like you've never been hurt.

Dance like nobody's watching.

Sing like nobody's listening.

Live like it's Heaven on Earth.

DESIDERATA

Proud of you for posting "PTSD Daze". Way to go, my hero, way to go !!!!!!!!

I love our original poetry contributions, especially any written by you, Cherry.

MOM

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

Wowsers !!!! That one was awesome and so inspiring. Thanks so much.

MOM

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

Outstanding

I will cast no stones!

Dave Barker

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL
America the Beautiful, or so you used to be.
Land of the Pilgrims' pride; I'm glad they'll never see.
Babies piled in dumpsters, Abortion on demand,
Oh, sweet land of liberty, your house is on the sand.

Our children wander aimlessly poisoned by cocaine,
Choosing to indulge their lusts, when God has said abstain.
From sea to shining sea, our Nation turns away
From the teaching of God's love and a need to always pray.

So many worldly preachers tell lies about our Rock,
It's time we each read His Word and started to take stock.

We've kept God in our temples, how callous we have grown.
When earth is but His footstool, and Heaven is His throne.
We've voted in a government that's rotting at the core,
Appointing Godless Judges who throw reason out the door,

Too soft to place a killer in a well deserved tomb,
But brave enough to kill a baby before he leaves the womb.

You think that God's not angry, that our land's a moral slum?
How much longer will He wait before His judgment comes?
How are we to face our God, from Whom we cannot hide?
What then is left for us to do, but stem this evil tide?

If we who are His children, will humbly turn and pray;
Seek His holy face and mend our evil way:

Then God will hear from Heaven and forgive us of our sins,
He'll heal our sickly land and those who live within.
But, America the Beautiful, if you don't then you will see,
A sad but Holy God withdraw His hand from Thee.

~Judge Roy Moore

May the road up rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back. May
the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again may God hold you in the palm of his hand.

TO BOB ON HIS 51st BIRTHDAY


So often men are little boys
Dressed up and playing fools.
But you, you are a hero.
Your heart of gold is true.

No one can say you had it easy
As you traveled along your way.
But those who really know you
See your gifts shine through each day.

A gentle man, a warrior,
Tender yet oh so tough.
A smile and yes some orneriness,
A joy to all of us.

And if someone needs protected
You always are there to serve.
You plant your feet along the path
And never do you swerve.

For wisdom comes with struggle
And your soul shines pure like gold.
I’m honored just to know you.
I’m blessed to see your soul.

And as your second half century
Begins upon this fragile Earth,
I know that you are a hero
And will give it all you are worth.

Yes, I am blessed to have you
In my daily life and heart
Each and every day
To light my walk with tenderness
And so I’m proud to say…

God Bless You,
My Love, My Hero,
On this your special day.

-----Lynne L. Tisdale
March 30, 2004

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

I am a small and precious child, my dad's been sent to fight,
The only place I'll see his face is in my dreams at night.
He will be gone too many days for my young mind to keep track,
I may be sad, but I am proud - My daddy's got your back.

I am a caring mother, my son has gone to war,
My mind is filled with worries I have never known before.
Everyday I try to keep my thoughts from turning black,
I may be scared, but I am proud - my son has got your back.

I am a strong and loving wife, with a husband soon to go,
There are times I'm terrified in a way most never know.
I bite my lip, and force a smile as I watch my husband pack,
My heart may break, but I am proud - my husband's got your back.

And I am a soldier, serving proudly, standing tall.
I fight for freedom, yours and mine, by answering this call.
I do my job while knowing the thanks it sometimes lacks -
Say a prayer that I'll come home. It's me who's got your back.

Anonymous

OUR TROOPS

They soar in jets above the land
They sail byond the seas
They march acress the desert
They crawl between the trees

No matter what the role they play
Each chooses to protect
The lives of all Americans
For this we owe a debt

Today, and every single day
'Til each one returns safe and sound
Please say a little prayer with me
For the troops: air, sea, and ground



God, please...
Grant them courage when times seem bleak
Grant them strength when they feel weak
Grant them comfort when they feel all alone
And most of all, God
PLEASE BRING THEM ALL HOME

Anonymous

[This message was edited by ToHonorHim on Fri, 09 April 2004 at 13:32.]

A Military Man

The average age of the military man is 19 years.

He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances, is considered by society as half man, half boy. Noy yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.

He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers.

Hi is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation; but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other.

He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.

If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.

He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life, or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.

Just as did his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom.

Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

Anonymous

After being deployed in the sandbox for 13+ months, my beloved AR Son came to visit this Memorial Day Weekend.

He had gained weight (that's good since he has always been tall and thin), but has added new permanent injuries from his deployment. He now has permanent damage to his shoulder, knee and lower back as well, and sounds like an old man first thing in the morning. He's 23.

He is in good spirits and even though he knows he is gonna be part of the Stop Loss situation and won't get his Honorable Discharge after his 6 years which ends this upcoming Feb., he still is willing to stay the course.

There is a quiet little phrase in Uncle Sam's contract with Reservists that says that IF needed, 6 year enlistments will be extended to 8 years.

Since Dan's job is direct combat support (Postal, which can be setup just two miles behind any front line combat area), well, he will have an added 2 years to serve.

That guarantees he will deploy for yet another year+ tour somewhere near combat.

I'm proud of my son for staying the course. For accepting his permanent health problems, for hanging in there for the entire 8 years, for dealing yet again with not being able to find a job while home and having to leave his FireMan/EMT college in the middle of a quarter or semester, losing all credit for the work done, when he yet again is called to serve.

He has already served more active duty than active Army soldiers. If he had went Active, he would have already received his Honorable Discharge.

It's young soldiers like my son that ensure this country endures.

Perhaps American History will one day give Reservists and National Guard members their rightful place of honor during the War on Terror.

Hats off to all of them, active too !!!!!

MOM

I believe love given is the secret of life...MOM

From hard personal experience, in dealing with service connected claims, please tell Dan to report frequently to sick call and complain about the pain, stiffness and other problems with the injuries. The military discourages sick call visits. But all that particular attitude does is save the VA money later!
I see many veterans, who were injured on active duty, rejected because the service medical records are silent for treatment.
Even with treatment now and then, he still needs diagnosis of condition with documentation of regular treatment.
The condition must have a diagnosis!

I will cast no stones!

Dave Barker

quote:

---

Originally posted by DaveBarker:
From hard personal experience, in dealing with service connected claims, please tell Dan to report frequently to sick call and complain about the pain, stiffness and other problems with the injuries. The military discourages sick call visits. But all that particular attitude does is save the VA money later!
I see many veterans, who were injured on active duty, rejected because the service medical records are silent for treatment.
Even with treatment now and then, he still needs diagnosis of condition with documentation of regular treatment.
The condition must have a diagnosis!

_I will cast no stones!

Dave Barker_

---

AMEN DAVE!!!!!!


I will always fight for and strive to protect the right of any citizen to have their own opinions, regardless of their political leanings, to the best of my ability.- Inspired by Doc

July 17, 2004 www.newyorker.com/fact/content/?040712fa_fact

THE PRICE OF VALOR
by DAN BAUM

We train our soldiers to kill for us. Afterward, they’re on their own.
Issue of 2004-07-12 and 19
Posted 2004-07-05

Carl Cranston joined the Army in 1997, when he was still a junior at Sebring McKinley High School, not far from Canton, Ohio. He and his girlfriend, Debbie Stiles, had just had a baby, and they thought the Army offered the easiest path to job security. The country was enjoying what President Clinton liked to call “the longest peacetime expansion in history,” and Carl’s duties as an infantryman, they thought, would largely be a matter of his getting into shape, shooting awesome weapons, and learning skills like rappelling and land navigation. The Army allowed Carl to finish high school and, once he’d completed basic training, sent him to Schofield Barracks, outside Honolulu. Debbie gladly accompanied him. “The Army was the best choice we could have made, and I’d do it again,” she says. “Suddenly we were on our own, paying our bills. Eighteen years old, our first time away from home.”

The attacks of September 11th changed everything. The Cranstons were moved to Fort Benning, in Columbus, Georgia, so that Carl could join the 3rd Infantry Division’s 3rd Brigade, a mechanized unit known as the Sledgehammer Brigade. He and his men were assigned to accompany Bradley fighting vehicles—the fast, heavily armed personnel carriers that became the backbone of the attack on Iraq. Seven soldiers, or “dismounts,” would squeeze into the Bradley’s stifling rear compartment, and Carl, by now a sergeant, was their team leader. The Sledgehammers were among the first units to cross into Iraq after the war started, in March, 2003, and Carl was involved in eleven firefights, seven of them “major,” by his reckoning. They fought from the Kuwait border to central Baghdad, and finally rotated back to Fort Benning last July.
I met Carl and Debbie in February, at a Red Lobster restaurant in Columbus. He’s a big man of twenty-four, with a high-fade military buzz cut and a well-padded face that relaxes into a wide smile. She is small and blond, with a sharp chin and a quick, alert look honed by rimless glasses. Carl tends to be guileless and cheerful, Debbie more clipped and wary.

Carl still marvels at the lethality of the Sledgehammers. Iraqi soldiers, believing they were concealed by darkness or smoke, would expose themselves to the Bradley’s thermal sights and the devastating rapid fire of its twenty-five-millimetre cannon. Carl and his squad would tumble out the back of the Bradley and attack Iraqi soldiers who had survived. “We killed a lot of people,” he said as we ate. Later, Carl and his men had to establish roadblocks, which was notoriously dangerous duty. “We started out being nice,” Carl said. “We had little talking cards to help us communicate. We’d put up signs in Arabic saying ‘Stop.’ We’d say, ‘Ishta, ishta,’ which means ‘Go away.’” But people would approach with white flags in their hands and then whip out AK-47s or rocket-propelled grenades.

So Carl’s group adopted a play-it-safe policy: if a driver ignored the signs and the warnings and came within thirty metres of a roadblock, the Americans opened fire. “That’s why nobody in our whole company got killed,” he said. Debbie stopped eating and stared into her food. “You’re not supposed to fire warning shots, but we did,” Carl said. “And still some people wouldn’t stop.” He went on, “A couple of times—more than a couple—it was women and children in the car. I don’t know why they didn’t stop.” Carl’s squad didn’t tow away the cars containing dead people. “You can’t go near it,” he said. “It might be full of explosives. You just leave it.” He and his men would remain at their posts alongside the carnage. “Nothing else you can do,” he said.

Debbie watched the waitress clear our plates, then she leaned forward to tell about a night in July, after Carl’s return, when they went with some friends to the Afterhours Enlisted Club at Fort Benning. Carl had a few drinks, Debbie said, and started railing at the disk jockey, shouting, “I want to hear music about people blowing people’s brains out, cutting people’s throats!” Debbie continued, “I said, ‘Carl. Shut up.’ He said, ‘No, I want to hear music about **** I’ve seen!’”

Carl listened to Debbie’s story with a loving smile, as though she were telling about him losing his car keys. “I don’t remember that,” he said, laughing. Debbie said, “That was the first time I heard him say stuff about seeing people’s brains blown out. Other times, he just has flashbacks—like, he sits still and stares.” Carl laughed again. “Really, though, I’m fine,” he said. Beside him in the booth, Debbie shook her head without taking her eyes from mine and exaggeratedly mouthed, “Not fine. Not fine.”



In November, 1943, a bespectacled United States Army lieutenant colonel named S. L. A. Marshall waded ashore with the troops attacking the Japanese on Makin Island. Marshall, who was known as Slam, had fought in the First World War, and had then left college to report news and sports stories for the El Paso Herald. In 1940, he published “Blitzkrieg,” the first of his many military histories, and earned good reviews from prominent war historians. After Pearl Harbor, Marshall returned to the Army, as one of twenty-seven officers in a new historical branch.

On Makin, where the fighting lasted four days, he toted a carbine and tagged along with the infantry—once collapsing from dehydration under a pandanus tree—all the while taking notes for an official account of the battle. Shortly after the island had been secured, Marshall was stymied by a dispute between a lieutenant and a private named Schwartz over whether Schwartz, who helped hold off eleven Japanese attacks with a machine gun, had taken charge of the gun on his own initiative or on the lieutenant’s.

To sort it out, Marshall lined up the battalion and asked every man what he’d seen and done. No single soldier had a sense of the entire incident, but each added a piece, as in a jigsaw puzzle, until a detailed account emerged, not only of the Schwartz question—as it turned out, Schwartz was the hero—but of the whole gruelling campaign. Delighted with this G.I.’s view of battle, Marshall used his technique—which he called the “after-action interview”—throughout the Pacific and European theatres for the next nineteen months,