I must admit that it took me the better part of a week to get over the fact that my beloved St. Luke's Espiscopal Church in Richmond, Virginia is now a mosque, but I'm glad to say that I did. I still don't like it, but the fact is there's nothing I can do about it - that, plus it doesn't change any of the memories of the good times I had there while growing up.
Another thing that I always remember when I think of my childhood years when my family lived on Beck Drive was what I call the Weekend Field Trip. One of the things my parents did that impressed me when I was growing up was to take us on field trips to different historical locations around the state. Living in the Richmond area put us close to all of the historical locations - most of them, anyway - and I think our family hit them all. Actually, these field trips impressed me so much that when I was in the Air Force and was stationed in Hampton, I made it a point to take my kids to some of the same places my folks had taken me and my sisters. (Two of my three kids loved it, and one hated it. I'll leave it at that.)
Anyhow, about once a month or so - maybe longer in between, actually - we'd all pile into the family truckster and take off for a historical location. We hit all of the big ones, too - Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson; Mount Vernon, home of George Washington; Jamestown, the site of the first permanent English settlement in America; Colonial Williamsburg, the location of the colonial government in Virginia in pre-Revolutionary War days; the Yorktown Battlefield, site of the British surrender ending the Revolutionary War; and last but not least Hampton Roads, the site of the battle between the first two ironclad warships, the CSS VIRGINIA and the USS MONITOR. And throughout all of the field trips we took, I remember one or two very specific things about each of them. For example:
I remember the French doors in Jefferson's house at Monticello that were linked so that when you pulled one of them open, they both opened up. (Very advanced for the mid-18th Centurty, you know.)
I remember seeing the tomb where Washington is buried at Mount Vernon. I also remember taking the trip in the beige Volkswagen Beetle my father had at the time, and the bag full of sno-caps candy we took with us - and that my sister Cindy got sick off of.
I remember me and my two sisters sitting on the barrel and wheels of a cannon outside of the Visitor's Center at the Yorktown Battlefield while my father took our picture. 25 years later I took the same picture of my kids sitting on the same cannon. Way cool, huh?
I remember the Governor's Palace and the Maze at Colonial Williamsburg, and the firing of the 9 o'clock gun - which, sad to say, they don't do anymore.
I remember going on the tour boat to see the site of the Battle of the Ironclads in Hampton Roads, and the movement of the boat as we rode out the wake of a ship that passed by us.
And I will always for the rest of my life remember the trip to Jamestown. We took that one in the green 1965 Ford Falcon station wagon my father had, and just as we were about halfway through the driving tour of Jamestown Island, the water hose burst and we were stuck. My father has always been a man of great ingenuity and I wish I could tell you how he got the car fixed and got us out of there, but I can't. As good as my memory is, that point is just gone. But before the car crapped out on us I do remember walking through the recreated fort and seeing all of the character actors there, and watching in amazement as a glassblower did his thing.
But the grand-daddy of all field trips took a bit more than a weekend, and it took us a bit further away than Monticello or Mount Vernon. In either 1967 or 1968 we took a trip to the mother of all Civil War battlefields, that being Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. We spent two or three days looking around the town, driving through the battlefield, and just playing tourist, and I enjoyed ever single minute of it! I remember The Electric Map, which was a big map layed out on the floor of a building with seats all around it, each row a bit higher than the one below it, and the troop movements of the three day's battle were played out in different colored lights on the map. Absolutely amazing to me! Somewhere in my father's house is a picture of me and my two sisters standing on the monument to Pickett's Charge, also called the Highwater Mark of the Confederacy, and I only wish I'd known as much about the war and that particular battle then as I do now. I'd have appreciated it more, that's for sure. (I always meant to go back to Gettysburg when I lived in New Jersey, but never made it. Damn.)
Like I said, when it was my turn to have kids and the Air Force put me back in Virginia, I took my kids to some of the same locations. We all went to Yorktown and Colonial Williamsburg, and my son and I rode our mountain bikes around Jamestown Island back to the very spot where our Falcon wagon died. And for me, I don't know which was the bigger kick - going back to a happy place from my childhood (I guess sometimes you can go home again after all) or taking my own kids there and sharing it with them.
Either way, it's all good!
IHC
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Take Down the Bird Feeder, or Clean Up the Poop
I got this in an e-mail from my father this morning, and it was so bang-on and so true that I just had to share it here immediately. I apologize for the formatting, but I don't have time to reformat it before I head for work. Having said that, here it is.
I bought a bird feeder. I hung
It on my back porch and filled
It with seed. What a beauty of
A bird feeder it was, as I filled it
lovingly with seed. Within a
Week we had hundreds of birds
Taking advantage of the
Continuous flow of free and
Easily accessible food.
But then the birds started
Building nests in the boards
Of the patio, above the table,
And next to the barbecue.
Then came the poop. It was
Everywhere: on the patio tile,
The chairs, the table ..
Everywhere!
Then some of the birds
Turned mean. They would
Dive bomb me and try to
Peck me even though I had
Fed them out of my own
Pocket.
And others birds were
Boisterous and loud. They
Sat on the feeder and
Squawked and screamed at
All hours of the day and night
And demanded that I fill it
When it got low on food.
After a while, I couldn't even
Sit on my own back porch
Anymore. So I took down the
Bird feeder and in three days
The birds were gone. I cleaned
Up their mess and took down
The many nests they had built
All over the patio.
Soon, the back yard was like
It used to be .... Quiet, serene....
And no one demanding their
Rights to a free meal.
Now let's see.
Our government gives out
Free food, subsidized housing,
Free medical care and free
Education, and allows anyone
Born here to be an automatic
Citizen.
Then the illegal's came by the
Tens of thousands. Suddenly
Our taxes went up to pay for
Free services; small apartments
Are housing 5 families; you
Have to wait 6 hours to be seen
By an emergency room doctor;
Your child's second grade class is
Behind other schools because
Over half the class doesn't speak
English.
Corn Flakes now come in a
Bilingual box; I have to
'press one ' to hear my bank
Talk to me in English, and
People waving flags other
Than 'Old Glory' are
Squawking and screaming
In the streets, demanding
More rights and free liberties.
Just my opinion, but maybe
it's time for the government
To take down the bird feeder.
If you agree, pass it on; if not,
Just continue cleaning up the poop
So what's it goona be, America? Are you gonna take down the bird feeder, or continue cleaing up the poop?
IHC
I bought a bird feeder. I hung
It on my back porch and filled
It with seed. What a beauty of
A bird feeder it was, as I filled it
lovingly with seed. Within a
Week we had hundreds of birds
Taking advantage of the
Continuous flow of free and
Easily accessible food.
But then the birds started
Building nests in the boards
Of the patio, above the table,
And next to the barbecue.
Then came the poop. It was
Everywhere: on the patio tile,
The chairs, the table ..
Everywhere!
Then some of the birds
Turned mean. They would
Dive bomb me and try to
Peck me even though I had
Fed them out of my own
Pocket.
And others birds were
Boisterous and loud. They
Sat on the feeder and
Squawked and screamed at
All hours of the day and night
And demanded that I fill it
When it got low on food.
After a while, I couldn't even
Sit on my own back porch
Anymore. So I took down the
Bird feeder and in three days
The birds were gone. I cleaned
Up their mess and took down
The many nests they had built
All over the patio.
Soon, the back yard was like
It used to be .... Quiet, serene....
And no one demanding their
Rights to a free meal.
Now let's see.
Our government gives out
Free food, subsidized housing,
Free medical care and free
Education, and allows anyone
Born here to be an automatic
Citizen.
Then the illegal's came by the
Tens of thousands. Suddenly
Our taxes went up to pay for
Free services; small apartments
Are housing 5 families; you
Have to wait 6 hours to be seen
By an emergency room doctor;
Your child's second grade class is
Behind other schools because
Over half the class doesn't speak
English.
Corn Flakes now come in a
Bilingual box; I have to
'press one ' to hear my bank
Talk to me in English, and
People waving flags other
Than 'Old Glory' are
Squawking and screaming
In the streets, demanding
More rights and free liberties.
Just my opinion, but maybe
it's time for the government
To take down the bird feeder.
If you agree, pass it on; if not,
Just continue cleaning up the poop
So what's it goona be, America? Are you gonna take down the bird feeder, or continue cleaing up the poop?
IHC
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
You Can't Go Home Again
Whenever my mind starts to wander about the things I’ve done in the past, the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen, or the best parts of my life up to this point, my mind will invariably take me back to my childhood when my family lived on Beck Drive in Central Gardens, just outside of Richmond, Virginia. To me, that was the best and happiest part of my childhood – not that the rest was bad, of course, it was all good – but to me, that was the best part of it all. And of that time period, the majority of the good memories I have all revolve around the church my family attended, St. Luke’s Episcopal Church on the corner of Cowardin Street and Bainbridge Avenue.
St. Luke’s was considered a “high” Episcopal church, meaning that the services were conducted with a great deal of pomp and ceremony second only to the Catholic church. At the main mass on Sundays the procession consisted of two torch bearers, the crucifer (the man carrying the brass crucifix), two more torch bearers, the thurifer (the man carrying the brass incense burner called a thurible that was suspended on three long brass chains), two acolytes known as #1 and #2, the Master of Ceremonies, and then the priest. Everyone in the procession except the priest were wearing heavy red gabardine cassocks topped with white linen carters, with the priest wearing about twice as much ceremonial robes. There were about 24 candles burning in the altar area of the church during high mass, more at Christmas time, and this was all being done in a church that was not air conditioned.
Yeah, it got hot – you better believe it got hot! More than one young acolyte passed out from the heat and the wine right after communion, let me tell you!
When you started out as an acolyte in the church you always started out as a torch bearer and worked your way up from there. My father was a deacon in the church as well as an acolyte, and I remember when I was finally old enough to serve in the mass with him. I think I was about eight or nine, something like that. I started out as a torch bearer, moving up to crucifer after a while where I found out just how heavy that 5 foot tall solid brass crucifix really was. Then I moved up to thurifer and learned how to manipulate the thurible on those long chains without dropping it or letting it bump into something or someone while swinging it when the procession was moving up the aisle to the alter. I also remember stressing out the first time I did that position, trying not to miss my cue after the sermon to re-enter the service. When the priest, Father Hendricks, would give his sermon the thurifer would leave the altar area through a side door and stay in the acolyte’s room where the robes and cassocks were kept, and it was his job to keep the incense burning while there. You also had to be on your toes and listen for your cue to re-enter the service; if you came in too early you looked like a fool and were sure to hear about it from Father Hendricks later, and if you missed your cue and came in late the same thing happened. But I didn’t miss the cue, I didn’t bump into anything or anyone with the thurible, and all was right with the world.
After doing the thurifer thing a few times I moved up to the #1 position. The #1 and #2 positions were the two acolytes who helped the priest in the consecration of the wafers and the wine used in communion by bringing them to him at the altar to be blessed. Additionally, the #1 position also had the task of ringing the three brass bells at specific times during the blessing of the wafers and the wine, something else that if you botched it up you were sure to hear about it later.
If all of this sounds like a lot to remember, lemme tell ya it was. That’s why every Saturday you’d have rehearsal at the chuch where you’d practice the mass to make sure you got it right. But it was a challenge, it was an honor, and it was fun. I enjoyed serving as an acolyte with my father more than anything else in that period of my life, and I remember him looking over at me during the service after I’d just finished my stint as #1 and giving me a slight smile and a nod. If I’d have felt any prouder my chest would have exploded right then and there.
The church was an old church, even in the 1960’s, and to this day I remember the layout. It had a big flight of concrete steps leading up to the main entrance foyer, and off to the right side of the foyer was the area were the prayer candles were. To the left was a stairwell that led down to the side door and then to the basement, and straight ahead and through the double doors was the church proper. The inside of the church looked fairly huge to an eight year old boy, with high ceilings, big columns on the ends of the rows of pews, big stained glass windows where the Stations of the Cross were located, all leading up to the altar area where the services were held. If you walked up the left side of the church and went through the swinging doors you went into the administrative area of the church, and if you walked up the right side of the church and went through those doors you were in the area where the acolyte’s room and the church library were. At the end of each of those hallways were stairs leading to the second floor of the church where the classrooms where Sunday school was taught.
As I said there was a basement, which you could get to by either the stairs on the left side of the foyer or by a door on the left side of the church. The basement was where coffee and donuts were served after the main mass on Sundays, and it also had a full kitchen and a stage. I remember being in several Christmas pageants on that stage with my sisters and a cousin or two, and I remember my first taste of the most vile liquid I'd ever had in my mouth at the tender age of 6 when I tried coffee for the first time in the basement after mass one Sunday. Also down on that level was Father Hendrick’s office and a study.
Father Hendricks had a Great Dane named Sally that used to wander the church with him, and she was a very gentle dog. I think the two things I’ll always remember about Father Hendricks are his pipe and Sally.
My family was very active in the church in those days, and we spent a lot of time there. I remember going to Stations of the Cross mass with my mother during Easter several times, and I also remember the collection boxes during Lent. After the services on Sunday we’d either go over to my grandfather’s house to visit my father’s parents – my mom’s folks lived in Florida – or we’d go over to my Aunt Helen’s house to visit her and my Uncle Mason. Helen was one of my father’s two older sisters, and she was my favorite aunt. Once my grandmother passed away and my grandfather moved in with Helen and Mason we’d go over there after mass to visit all of them.
Without a doubt, this was the best part of my childhood hands down.
I’m the kind of person who likes to go back to places I’ve been before and see how things have changed, sit back and look at something and do the old “remember when” kind of thing, and one of the things I’ve always wanted to do is go back to St. Luke’s Church and take a look around one more time. Yeah, I know they say you can never go home again, but I’m stubborn when it comes to things like that. My mom told me that she had heard that somewhere along the way Father Hendricks took a sabbatical and become a monk or something like that, leaving St. Luke’s to do so, and that at one point the church had ceased to be an Episcopal church and was being used as a daycare center or something like that. To me that’s a damned shame, because I loved that church just the way it was. Yeah, I know, things change and all that, but sometimes the change isn’t for the better.
So last night I got curious and decided to take a look via Google Maps and see just what had happened to my church, if anything. I called my mom and asked if she remembered the address of the church and she said that she didn’t remember the specific address but that it was located on Cowardin Street; when I asked her if she remembered the school across the street she said that she did. The school was Bainbridge Junior High School and she had attended school there for a year, so I did a quick Internet search for it and found it in the Richmond Public Schools information website. Once I got the address of the school I found it easily with Google Maps, and saw that the school was gone and a medical school was there now. Using the street level view I spun the view around to the church to take a look, and there it was. I was looking at the old St. Luke’s Episcopal Church building from the front, looking up the steps where my parents had come down in a shower of rice after being married there on June 26, 1950, the same steps that led up to the doors that opened into the church where I’d spent so many happy hours in my childhood.
Then I noticed the words in big, black, bold letters emblazoned right across the front of the church, and my jaw dropped.
MOHAMMED MOSQUE NO. 24.
Well, shit!
I guess you can’t go home again, huh?
Well, no matter. That doesn’t change what happened there when I was but a young boy, it doesn’t alter the pleasant and wonderful memories that I have of that time and place, and it certainly won’t stop me from smiling when I remember St. Luke’s, Father Hendricks, Sally, an incense-smoke filled cloak room with a thurible sitting on the table, and serving on the alter with my father.
I guess that’s the good thing about memories – no matter what, no one can take them away from you, ever.
And I can live with that.
IHC
St. Luke’s was considered a “high” Episcopal church, meaning that the services were conducted with a great deal of pomp and ceremony second only to the Catholic church. At the main mass on Sundays the procession consisted of two torch bearers, the crucifer (the man carrying the brass crucifix), two more torch bearers, the thurifer (the man carrying the brass incense burner called a thurible that was suspended on three long brass chains), two acolytes known as #1 and #2, the Master of Ceremonies, and then the priest. Everyone in the procession except the priest were wearing heavy red gabardine cassocks topped with white linen carters, with the priest wearing about twice as much ceremonial robes. There were about 24 candles burning in the altar area of the church during high mass, more at Christmas time, and this was all being done in a church that was not air conditioned.
Yeah, it got hot – you better believe it got hot! More than one young acolyte passed out from the heat and the wine right after communion, let me tell you!
When you started out as an acolyte in the church you always started out as a torch bearer and worked your way up from there. My father was a deacon in the church as well as an acolyte, and I remember when I was finally old enough to serve in the mass with him. I think I was about eight or nine, something like that. I started out as a torch bearer, moving up to crucifer after a while where I found out just how heavy that 5 foot tall solid brass crucifix really was. Then I moved up to thurifer and learned how to manipulate the thurible on those long chains without dropping it or letting it bump into something or someone while swinging it when the procession was moving up the aisle to the alter. I also remember stressing out the first time I did that position, trying not to miss my cue after the sermon to re-enter the service. When the priest, Father Hendricks, would give his sermon the thurifer would leave the altar area through a side door and stay in the acolyte’s room where the robes and cassocks were kept, and it was his job to keep the incense burning while there. You also had to be on your toes and listen for your cue to re-enter the service; if you came in too early you looked like a fool and were sure to hear about it from Father Hendricks later, and if you missed your cue and came in late the same thing happened. But I didn’t miss the cue, I didn’t bump into anything or anyone with the thurible, and all was right with the world.
After doing the thurifer thing a few times I moved up to the #1 position. The #1 and #2 positions were the two acolytes who helped the priest in the consecration of the wafers and the wine used in communion by bringing them to him at the altar to be blessed. Additionally, the #1 position also had the task of ringing the three brass bells at specific times during the blessing of the wafers and the wine, something else that if you botched it up you were sure to hear about it later.
If all of this sounds like a lot to remember, lemme tell ya it was. That’s why every Saturday you’d have rehearsal at the chuch where you’d practice the mass to make sure you got it right. But it was a challenge, it was an honor, and it was fun. I enjoyed serving as an acolyte with my father more than anything else in that period of my life, and I remember him looking over at me during the service after I’d just finished my stint as #1 and giving me a slight smile and a nod. If I’d have felt any prouder my chest would have exploded right then and there.
The church was an old church, even in the 1960’s, and to this day I remember the layout. It had a big flight of concrete steps leading up to the main entrance foyer, and off to the right side of the foyer was the area were the prayer candles were. To the left was a stairwell that led down to the side door and then to the basement, and straight ahead and through the double doors was the church proper. The inside of the church looked fairly huge to an eight year old boy, with high ceilings, big columns on the ends of the rows of pews, big stained glass windows where the Stations of the Cross were located, all leading up to the altar area where the services were held. If you walked up the left side of the church and went through the swinging doors you went into the administrative area of the church, and if you walked up the right side of the church and went through those doors you were in the area where the acolyte’s room and the church library were. At the end of each of those hallways were stairs leading to the second floor of the church where the classrooms where Sunday school was taught.
As I said there was a basement, which you could get to by either the stairs on the left side of the foyer or by a door on the left side of the church. The basement was where coffee and donuts were served after the main mass on Sundays, and it also had a full kitchen and a stage. I remember being in several Christmas pageants on that stage with my sisters and a cousin or two, and I remember my first taste of the most vile liquid I'd ever had in my mouth at the tender age of 6 when I tried coffee for the first time in the basement after mass one Sunday. Also down on that level was Father Hendrick’s office and a study.
Father Hendricks had a Great Dane named Sally that used to wander the church with him, and she was a very gentle dog. I think the two things I’ll always remember about Father Hendricks are his pipe and Sally.
My family was very active in the church in those days, and we spent a lot of time there. I remember going to Stations of the Cross mass with my mother during Easter several times, and I also remember the collection boxes during Lent. After the services on Sunday we’d either go over to my grandfather’s house to visit my father’s parents – my mom’s folks lived in Florida – or we’d go over to my Aunt Helen’s house to visit her and my Uncle Mason. Helen was one of my father’s two older sisters, and she was my favorite aunt. Once my grandmother passed away and my grandfather moved in with Helen and Mason we’d go over there after mass to visit all of them.
Without a doubt, this was the best part of my childhood hands down.
I’m the kind of person who likes to go back to places I’ve been before and see how things have changed, sit back and look at something and do the old “remember when” kind of thing, and one of the things I’ve always wanted to do is go back to St. Luke’s Church and take a look around one more time. Yeah, I know they say you can never go home again, but I’m stubborn when it comes to things like that. My mom told me that she had heard that somewhere along the way Father Hendricks took a sabbatical and become a monk or something like that, leaving St. Luke’s to do so, and that at one point the church had ceased to be an Episcopal church and was being used as a daycare center or something like that. To me that’s a damned shame, because I loved that church just the way it was. Yeah, I know, things change and all that, but sometimes the change isn’t for the better.
So last night I got curious and decided to take a look via Google Maps and see just what had happened to my church, if anything. I called my mom and asked if she remembered the address of the church and she said that she didn’t remember the specific address but that it was located on Cowardin Street; when I asked her if she remembered the school across the street she said that she did. The school was Bainbridge Junior High School and she had attended school there for a year, so I did a quick Internet search for it and found it in the Richmond Public Schools information website. Once I got the address of the school I found it easily with Google Maps, and saw that the school was gone and a medical school was there now. Using the street level view I spun the view around to the church to take a look, and there it was. I was looking at the old St. Luke’s Episcopal Church building from the front, looking up the steps where my parents had come down in a shower of rice after being married there on June 26, 1950, the same steps that led up to the doors that opened into the church where I’d spent so many happy hours in my childhood.
Then I noticed the words in big, black, bold letters emblazoned right across the front of the church, and my jaw dropped.
MOHAMMED MOSQUE NO. 24.
Well, shit!
I guess you can’t go home again, huh?
Well, no matter. That doesn’t change what happened there when I was but a young boy, it doesn’t alter the pleasant and wonderful memories that I have of that time and place, and it certainly won’t stop me from smiling when I remember St. Luke’s, Father Hendricks, Sally, an incense-smoke filled cloak room with a thurible sitting on the table, and serving on the alter with my father.
I guess that’s the good thing about memories – no matter what, no one can take them away from you, ever.
And I can live with that.
IHC
Sunday, June 5, 2011
When Is a Gulf War Vet, NOT a Gulf War Vet?
This past weekend I finally had the chance to go to the Angier Bike Fest in Angier, North Carolina with my biker sister, "Dewdrop." This is something we'd been trying to do for the past three years, and every time I planned the trip it rained. Now, call me silly or whatever, but I just can't see going to a bike fest or bike rally in a car or a truck - I mean, it's a BIKE RALLY, fer cryin' out loud, and if you go to it you should be ON YOUR BIKE! For that reason I was unable to make the '09 and '10 Bike Fests, but this year the Weather Gods smiled on me and I was finally able to make the trip.
And it was well worth it. For a little bitty town, Angier put on a pretty good bike fest, and there were lots of bikes there worth walking around looking at. They also had a "drive-in" bike contest, live bands, an auction, vendors, food booths, and things like that. Like I said, for a town the size of Angier, they did themselves proud.
"Dewdrop" and I were taking a break from walking around, sitting on the steps to a building in the fest area resting in the shade, when I saw a guy walking past wearing a vest on which was the same "GULF WAR VETERAN" patch that I have on my vest - which I was wearing at the time, of course. So I called out to him and got his attention, and the conversation started out like this:
ME: "Hey, Gulf War!"
HIM: "Hey, how ya doin?"
ME: "I see you were in the Gulf War."
HIM: "Yeah, I was."
ME: "Where at?"
HIM: "Huh?"
ME: "Where were you?"
HIM: "South Dakota."
Say what? South Dakota?
Turns out that the guy was working in the missile fields at the time, and the closest he got to the war zone was watching it on CNN.
To give the guy credit, I'll agree with what my sister said about the guy at least being honest enough to admit that he wasn't really in the war zone instead of lying about it; for that, sure, I'll give him credit. But it still bugs the living shit outta me that this guy would have the balls - or the discourtesy - to wear a patch proclaiming himself to be a Gulf War Veteran when he wasn't in the war. Sure, he was in the Air Force at the time of the war, but that doesn't make him a "Gulf War Veteran." What that makes him is a "Gulf War ERA Veteran," and there's a big difference between the two.
A BIG difference.
The thing that bugs me the most about it, I guess, is that this guy is falsely representing himself to those that don't know any better, and he's riding on the coattails of the guys who really were in the war - those who were "in country," dodging SCUDs, bullets, and all that other crap that was flying around through the air at the time. In short, he's trying to take credit for something that he didn't do, something that he had no part in.
And to me, that puts him one or two levels above whale shit.
But in all honesty I have to say that it didn't dampen the day for me, I still had a great time at the bike fest with my sister, and as it turns out that was the worst thing that happened to me all weekend long. I didn't get rained on going up, I didn't get rained on while there, and I didn't get rained on coming home, so I guess I got off pretty lucky.
Life is good, and I'm glad for it!
IHC
And it was well worth it. For a little bitty town, Angier put on a pretty good bike fest, and there were lots of bikes there worth walking around looking at. They also had a "drive-in" bike contest, live bands, an auction, vendors, food booths, and things like that. Like I said, for a town the size of Angier, they did themselves proud.
"Dewdrop" and I were taking a break from walking around, sitting on the steps to a building in the fest area resting in the shade, when I saw a guy walking past wearing a vest on which was the same "GULF WAR VETERAN" patch that I have on my vest - which I was wearing at the time, of course. So I called out to him and got his attention, and the conversation started out like this:
ME: "Hey, Gulf War!"
HIM: "Hey, how ya doin?"
ME: "I see you were in the Gulf War."
HIM: "Yeah, I was."
ME: "Where at?"
HIM: "Huh?"
ME: "Where were you?"
HIM: "South Dakota."
Say what? South Dakota?
Turns out that the guy was working in the missile fields at the time, and the closest he got to the war zone was watching it on CNN.
To give the guy credit, I'll agree with what my sister said about the guy at least being honest enough to admit that he wasn't really in the war zone instead of lying about it; for that, sure, I'll give him credit. But it still bugs the living shit outta me that this guy would have the balls - or the discourtesy - to wear a patch proclaiming himself to be a Gulf War Veteran when he wasn't in the war. Sure, he was in the Air Force at the time of the war, but that doesn't make him a "Gulf War Veteran." What that makes him is a "Gulf War ERA Veteran," and there's a big difference between the two.
A BIG difference.
The thing that bugs me the most about it, I guess, is that this guy is falsely representing himself to those that don't know any better, and he's riding on the coattails of the guys who really were in the war - those who were "in country," dodging SCUDs, bullets, and all that other crap that was flying around through the air at the time. In short, he's trying to take credit for something that he didn't do, something that he had no part in.
And to me, that puts him one or two levels above whale shit.
But in all honesty I have to say that it didn't dampen the day for me, I still had a great time at the bike fest with my sister, and as it turns out that was the worst thing that happened to me all weekend long. I didn't get rained on going up, I didn't get rained on while there, and I didn't get rained on coming home, so I guess I got off pretty lucky.
Life is good, and I'm glad for it!
IHC
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)