With my son, Tony, making final preparations with his Marine Corps Reserve Battalion to go to war in Iraq, my heart is just a bit heavy with a good-sized helping of concern.
On my lapel I wear a little round button. The button shows the gold anchor, globe, and eagle representing the United States Marine Corps. On a black background in gold lettering surrounding the seal are the words, “My son is a Marine”. I wear this button to show the pride I have in my son for serving during this tragic time of war and terror. Certainly, I am proud of what he is doing for America.
From time to time someone will casually ask what the status of my Marine is. So I tell them that he is preparing to join the battle in Iraq.
I get the feeling that most folks are not certain how to react to such news. I sometimes think that when I say my kid is going to Iraq it is the same as saying my kid is terminally ill. People just don’t seem very comfortable replying to the news.
Occasionally someone will ask me if I’m worried about my son. They then go on to talk about the son of someone they know at work, which has been wounded or even killed in Iraq. This is, of course is just exactly what I wanted to hear about. Especially as a prerequisite to voicing my thoughts on the question, “Are you worried?”
I am reminded of the callous news reporter, who shoves a microphone in the face of a distraught man and with cameras running asks, “So, How does it feel to have lost everything, your business, your home, your family and all earthly possessions in the giant tidal wave?” “Duh” What hell is this reported thinking? Does he think he will get some new and unexpected answer?
“Worried, Who me?”
After spending my entire adult life serving in the Armed Forces and spending many hours studying war, playing war games, debating war, learning about war and even teaching war to Army ROTC cadets, I can easily say that I probably know just a wee too much about war to be free of worries.
Let me put it this way, next time you watch Saving Private Ryan for a night of family entertainment, just slap a picture of your son’s face over one of the actors storming ashore the bloody Normandy beachhead. I suggest the guy that gets his arm blown off, hesitates, bends over, picks up the amputated limb and keeps running up the beach. Believe me; you will go through a shift in your thinking concerning watching graphic war movies as entertainment.
So, how do you prepare your kid for war? Is it sort of like preparing him for the first day at kindergarten, or his fist solo with the family car or even the first formal dance with a beautiful young woman?
I can help prepare him by buying all the equipment and gear that Congress decided not to provide him. Unfortunately, once I go beyond beef jerky, polypropylene underwear and a leatherman multi-tool, there is not much else I can afford to buy him. Too bad America could not afford to up-grade hummers sooner, or better yet, purchased explosion resistant, armored urban combat vehicles.
I can, and did throw him one big going away party. I have already begun to plan the welcome home party.
I can convince him to join my fraternity hoping that a “brother” might take him take in tow along their way.
I can ask God that the hearts of our enemies be softened. I agree with the words of Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir … that the violence will end when the parents of (the suicide bombers) learn to love their children more than they hate us…
Finally, I can hope and pray, sometimes even plead for his safety. “Dear Lord, please make my son bullet proof”! This might sound very irreverent, but it is the truthful way I feel.
I am grateful that I have a strong sense of hope, that no matter what the outcome, faith in God heals all wounds.
Most of what I could do to prepare him for war actually happened in his first eight years of life. Isn’t it true that in those years most people develop something called character?
In my opinion, more than anything else, character is the most important thing a man carries in to battle. Character flows from personal beliefs (like faith in God) and values (honor, duty, courage) and will do more than anything else to carry a person through the boredom, excitement, suffering, horror and sacrifice of war.
I believe my son is a man of good character. I’m certain those who know my son will agree that he is honest, compassionate; self disciplined and works hard to accomplish his goals. I hope his character is strong enough to bring him home unscathed. I have faith that he is in God’s hands
Part 2
It’s too late and there is not much point to discussing the morality or legality of our deposing Saddam Hussein. We did it. It is a done thing. Now we must work to make Iraq into a peaceful nation that will never threaten peace again.
Destroying the evil regime in Iraq and in Afghanistan has brought upon us, as a nation a great responsibility. We must build new nations to replace those we eliminated.
In the aftermath of WWII America was committed to building new nations from the ashes of its enemies. Our success is apparent in that former members of the Axis powers never again threatened peace.
I can think of very few tasks of such great historic importance as nation building. Generations will be effected by how we accomplish building a new Iraq. It is truly a great undertaking that only a great people can hope to accomplish.
Remember the words of President Teddy Roosevelt, which went something like this… We must dare to be great and we must realize that greatness is the fruit of toil and sacrifice and high courage!
We call them “America’s Greatest Generation”, in recognition of the toil, sacrifice and high courage Americans’ used to win the Second World War. The title “great” isn’t earned by taking things easy.
I have no question of the toil, sacrifice and high courage of our Armed forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, but I wonder how hard the American people are really working to support them. President Bush said we are in a struggle in which “civilization is at stake”. Is anything less at stake today than there was in 1941?
Remember December 7th, 1941? In the days following Pearl Harbor, America committed to win the war at any cost.
Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld said that “You go to war with the army you have”. We began World War Two with horse drawn artillery, a few medium range bombers, and single shot rifles. Less than four years later we ended that war by dropping an atomic bomb that in 1941 was only a science fiction fantasy, from a bomber that was only a drafting table concept.
Unlike the Second World War, after four years of fighting terrorism we still are not able to provide our troops with equipment or manpower needed to keep them safe let alone win the war. Artillery units are leaving their howitzers behind and being retrained as infantry to patrol Baghdad, Administrative Reserve units are called to service to fill in combat duties, and enlistments are being forced into overtime to keep up troop strength. Major supply routes are still unsecured from insurgent attacks. We found ourselves short on body armor, and still without an armored vehicle suitable for prolonged urban combat, hence the up-armored hummers. .
A generation ago our nation was caught up in the struggle against world communist domination. Liberty was at stake. President John F. Kennedy said; “ that we will pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and success of liberty”. The commitment we made then is no less than the commitment we must make now. Have we made such a commitment to fight terrorism? Could our lack of providing our armed forces the manpower and equipment they need stem from a lack of true commitment to “pay any cost, bear any burden”?
My son, the marine has committed himself to fighting this war against terror. He will toil and struggle and show high courage. In the end he will be a great man. I hope all of America is willing to do the same. Our future as a great people depends upon it.
Next time someone asks about my marine button I might reply with; “Hey, what is your son doing for America?”
Last Spring my 15 year old daughter, Anna, was running hurdles for her middle school track team. I happened to be a spectator at one race. It was the day that she made a name for herself and added to the history of Niederriter fame.
From the moment the “crack” of the starters pistol began the race, I knew this was going to be a special day for the Niederriter family. Anna sprung off the starting line and barreled down her lane. She cleared the first few hurdles like a deer leaping across a meadow. She took on the next hurdle like she was riding a super charged pogo stick.
Then the trouble began.
Her foot just grazed the top of the next hurdle. The hurdle wobbled ever so slightly and Anna went on her way. However, this brief contact with the hurdle set into motion a chain of events like a string of dominoes falling down. Indeed, people still talk about the day that my daughter set a new mile stone for the sport.
The action picks up at the next hurdle. With her perfect rhythm delayed a teeny, tiny bit, she misjudged her distance to the next hurdle.
Wham!
She kicked the top of the hurdle with enough force to knock it to the ground. This caught the attention of the crowd. All eyes were on her as she recovered and kept hurling down the track. She sprung up into the air and it seemed all was going well….
Ka-Wham!
She struck the hurdle with the full force her five foot, six inch body could muster. I still remember the horrid feeling that gripped my heart as I watched my sweet little girl became a living bowling ball. Legs, arms and blond hair were all tangled up with the hurdle as they tumbled towards the finish line.
A hush fell on the stadium as Anna weaved right and left, knocking down and entangling more hurdles. Distracted by the commotion, the other runners began to crash into their hurdles and plunge into the growing ball of rising dust.
Coaches, equipment handlers and teammates fled in all directions, running for their lives! An official, in desperation began firing the starter’s blank pistol at Anna!
Suddenly, all was still.
As the dust settled, a figure emerged from the mêlée, Anna came out from the dust cloud, her blonde hair bobbing on her shoulders as she jogged across the finish line, just like nothing had happened!
Being that this is a fair and balanced letter, I have allowed Anna to comment on the previous bit. She claims that I mostly made it all up, but admits to having fallen down, once, after knocking down a single hurdle.
Just yesterday (back in the summer of 2009) Andy (my son, age 24) asked if he could borrow my ‘95 Camaro to go to work. He works at a pizza joint and usually, but not always delivers Pizza. I don’t allow him to ever deliver in any of my cars. So, I had some real trepidation in lending him my Camaro. But being the nice farther, the ‘sucker’ dad, I am, I Said, “You can use it.” But I gave him this one simple rule: he was in no way to use it for delivery.
“OK” says my son.
“And” using a stern voice, “I’m almost out of gas so you need to put some gas in on the way to work”
“Sure Pops”. He replied. Then off
he goes. The roar of the Camaro’s, high performance
engine faded away as he left our otherwise quiet neighborhood.
Three hours later he calls me.
With a calm unemotional voice Andy
says: “Dad, your car stalled. I think it is out of gas”
“Well’ says I, “Did you
put gas in it like I said?”
“NO”.
“Is the gas gauge on empty?” I asked,
restraining my growing anger.
“YES”.
“Then I’ll be there in a
few minutes. Where are You?”
“On a side street, near the DQ
on Sprague Road”
That is only three miles more distant than his pizza place is. I wondered, “Why was he driving out there? Perhaps on a DELIVERY!!” My heart rate then begins to rise and with it my blood pressure.
Did I mention I was being heavily medicated to control my high blood pressure? My body retains excess water that squeezes my blood vessels increasing blood pressure. I take diuretics or water pills to compensate. Those water pills ensure my bladder is always full and needing to be emptied. This frequently happens when I’m at the movies, like just when Darth Vader confesses he is Luke’s father. I’ll whisper to my sweetheart: “Anything important happen while I was gone?” Then there are the Vasodilators that relax blood vessel walls to let blood flow with less restrictions. This drug also seems to affect my love life. My high cholesterol builds up fatty speed bumps in the vessels slowing blood flow, so, I take statin drugs and niacin to treat that. But the statin drugs cause restless legs syndrome, so I take a drug, ropinirole to treat that. I take aspirin and anticoagulants to reduce the risk of ‘thrombosis’. That’s doctor talk for blood clots that can stick tighter at those fatty speed bumps that stop blood flow to important places like my brain. Sometimes I suffer an angina attack. Like when I’m breathing cold air or too much physical labor or emotionally upset like from a son that doesn’t obey “Pops”. It’s a painful tightening feeling in my chest. Some victims describe angina as a elephant sitting on their chest. I take Beta Blocker drugs to reduce the onset of angina.
I grabbed our lawnmower’s three-gallon
gas jug and meet Andy at my disabled car. Glug, glug, glug, gas goes in, but
car still won’t start. I called a tow truck, took Andy and his red pizza
warming bag back to his Pizza joint, then returned to my car to wait an hour
for the tow truck.
My car, as you know is very special. It has what they call a high performance, small block V6 engine. Indeed, the engine has ‘tuned port, sequential fuel injection” that produces high horse power and squeal out torque.
Craig Hot Rod
The fuel pump for this monster power engine is computer controlled. A high flow fuel pump feeds fuel into three different gasoline lines going up to the engine. The computer then precisely measures and injects the fuel into each cylinder. Now this next part is sort of important so read slowly for maximum comprehension. The fuel pump is cooled by the gas flowing through it. With no gas flowing, it won’t cool, then the pump seizes up and the car won’t run.
The mechanic had to drop the exhaust, loosen
and drop the gas tank to remove the pump, change the fuel filter, bleed the 3
gas lines and put it all back together…400 dollars’ worth of labor.
Question? What is 189 over 107?
Answer: 189 over 107 is my blood pressure as measured within about an hour of getting the repair bill. I wonder what it would have been without all those medications?
“Craig” my wife says, “You cannot let things get to you like this” So, I guess I should take yoga and Zen meditation courses to learn how to actively control my blood pressure and of course, it’s really all my own fault for buying a specialty car in my mid-age, then trusting my son to buy gas and not deliver pizza.
Autumn has arrived. Soon there will be a flourish of activity all across America to prepare for Veteran’s Day celebrations.
I know what I’m doing for Veteran’s Day.
I’ll head down to the small cemetery where my father now lies. I’ll trim the grass and weeds that are trying to take over his headstone. Then I’ll clean the dirt from the lettering, so that all might see that he was an Army Sergeant during World War II.
I’ve listened to quite of few speeches given at Memorial Day and Veterans’ Day ceremonies. Usually an elected official is the speaker. I suppose it’s in their job description to give speeches. I’m glad I don’t have to give the speech. The task of writing and presenting a speech worthy of the selfless service and sacrifices of our war veterans is a great challenge.
It seems politicians just can’t resist the temptation to wrap their speech around their politics. For instance, when the city threw a “welcome home” ceremony for my son’s US Marine Reserve Battalion (The 3/25 Battalion, Brook Park, Ohio), A congresswoman warned the Iraq war veterans; “I hope your expectations are not too high…we still have a lot of work to do here.”
Was she telling my son not to expect too much from the nation that 37 men of his battalion had given their lives for? Was this an expression of her gratitude?
Then our congressman spoke. He seemed to be thanking the Marines for fighting a war that we had no business fighting. Thanks for your service, even if it was for a vain cause.
After hearing these speeches I have put some thought into who should be the speaker. I’d like to hear from someone with the wisdom of Benjamin Franklin, the nobility of Washington, the elegance of Webster, the Humor of Bob Hope, the simplicity of Lincoln and the compassion of a mother.
The speech should begin by describing how beautiful America is. Truly our land is unsurpassed in its many natural wonders. No other land has ever produced the bounty of earth as America has. I hope the speaker would then praise our forefathers who came to America in search of a better life. They pursued that goal with an intensity and passion that would enable them to bring freedom and prosperity to their children.
Then perhaps the speaker would lay down a foundation for the remainder of the speech to be built upon. He would talk about America’s values of freedom, liberty and equality. He would thank God for our right as individuals to be free from oppressive governments and show gratitude that our government is “of the people, by the people and for the people.”
Then the speaker would shift from America’s great values to it noble virtues; selfless service, self reliance, honor, love of God and country, but most importantly, courage. At this time it would be proper to speak of American heroes who exemplify these virtues. Americans such as, Nathaniel Hale, Clara Burton, and Col Lawrence Chamberlin would be mentioned. But as heart touching and inspiring as this orator might be, I want something more from them.
I would like my speaker to be someone who knows what it is like to spend sleepless nights worrying about a loved one serving in a combat zone. I want to know how may tears they shed upon hearing news that a neighbor’s son has just been killed or maimed. I’d expect the speaker to have spent many hours volunteering for the USO or the Red Cross to make life easier for our troops. Perhaps the speaker had to shrink away from a newspaper because the headline was just too painful.
I have some extra qualifications for politicians who might still be in the running as a speaker. I want to know if they changed their vote to support the war after committing our troops to fight in it. Have they done everything possible…. opened the treasury, cut red tape, forsaken pork barrel spending, and told our military leaders to “forget the cost , just buy whatever is needed to win the war.”
Did they tell those same leaders to pursue every advantage our technology, industry, and natural resources can provide to safeguard our troops and bring a swift and enduring victory? Did they ask Americans to make any sort of sacrifice of time or money to support the troops? Finally, the speaker should never have made apologies to returning warriors for their service or implied that America isn’t worth fighting for.
So who should be the speaker? I’m guessing it will be a soccer mom with a bumper sticker that reads, Proud Mother of a… Marine, Soldier, Airman, (take your pick). Who else would have the wisdom of Benjamin Franklin, the nobility of George Washington, the elegance of Daniel Webster, the humor of Bob Hope, the simplicity of Abraham Lincoln and the compassion of a mother, worthy of giving tribute to our veteran’s on this, their special day?
Sometime ago….. or maybe I ought to say, “Once upon a time” … My wife , Joan, had a run in with one of Ohio’s ugliest critters–an opossum. Or just “possum” for short.
Joan teaches clinical instruction for Cleveland State’s school of nursing, and it involves getting up very early in the morning and working a long day in a hospital. Well on this one particular morning, Joan was opening the door of our attached garage when she heard something shuffling along the wall behind my black beauty Camaro. She groped in the dark for the light switch and when the lights bloomed into brilliance, there was a loud and very weird screeching noise as a possum came running out from under the Camaro heading right between Joan’s legs.
As you can imagine my wife was quite startled. She did what every red blooded American woman would do, she screamed.
Joan slapped the garage door opener’s wall switch and as the door opened she bolted out of the garage. The possum who had been trapped in the garage for hours, now saw the growing gap between the floor and the door. He lurched towards his freedom; but, suddenly the woman was cutting him off! He tried to reverse himself, but too late. He slid right into her legs, bounced back, turned around and went straight back into the garage.
Joan cried out, “Jiminy crickets!! Craig, Cur-raig!”
She was trying to call me out of my deep slumber. I never heard a single thing, but the neighbors sure did. The neighborhood began to light up like Bedrock whenever Wilma’s cat locks Fred Flintstone out of his house.
Somebody called the cops. We live just around the corner from the police station, and there’s not even a donut shop between the station and our house to slow down their response. The men in blue arrived to see a wild-eyed woman staring into the garage. They were trying to figure out what was going on as they stepped out of their cruiser.
My wife said, “Got a possum”. But that’s not
what the policeman heard! “Got a
gun” is what the policeman heard.
The atmosphere became very tense. The policemen, thinking they were now facing down a crazy armed women dressed in white, called for backup. Within minutes the police SWAT team was setting up around our house leveling sniper rifles at my wife.
Our city Councilman lives just down the street. He was looking out his window at what he thought was a major crisis developing in his neighborhood. A good politician, he knew what to do next. Call the TV stations and prepare for a photo op. By now the whole neighborhood was awake, except me. People in their robes and pajamas, some wearing fuzzy slippers that looked like Homer Simpson, were streaming out of their houses to see what was going on.
Blue and red flashing lights, white strobe lights and local news TV video camera lights were turning my bedroom into a late night disco. I finally woke up. When I turned on the radio I heard there was a hostage situation developing in Parma. I leisurely dressed, went downstairs, into the garage, I saw a very frightened possum hunkered down in the corner. I said “Hey, little fella, has this ruckus got you scared?” I took a broom and sort of shushed him on his way out the side of the garage. He tore off into the darkness never to be seen again.
Just about then, they had my wife in the back of a police cruiser. A detective shook his head in denial as Joan told the story about the possum. They didn’t believe there were possums in Parma. The detective was getting pretty mad because Joan refused to tell him what she did with the gun. While the detective interrogated her, the other policemen were having a argument about whether the purple stethoscope around her neck should be considered a weapon.
Since the hostage situation didn’t seem to be developing, the news media lost interest and left. The councilman congratulated the police on a job well done. Slowly everybody went home.
Except for my wife
However, upon further questioning, and upon learning that she was on her way to teach clinical instruction, that she is the President of the Sigma Theta Tau Nursing Honor Society and President of the Northeast Ohio Medical Surgical Nurses Association, and of course married to me, they decided it was okay to let her go.
In the next issue of the Parma- Sun Newspaper the headlines read: “Councilman thwarts Hostage attempt.”
We
have been getting a lot of use from our car heater. By early December we were
visited by snow squalls and below freezing temperatures. The foul weather did
not stop me from taking a car ride with my lovely wife, Joan. After we had
driven a little while I began to feel ‘hot’. So I reached over and turned down
the car heater fan. Soon the car was at a comfortable temperature, but not for
long. Joan began to feel cold so she reached over and turned up the fan. So, I
turned it down the temperature. She countered by turning up the fan and temperature.
Get the picture?
Odd thing about this is that our conflict isn’t on how to set the controls for the car heater; it is a matter of dressing properly for a cold ride. When I go out I like to bundle up in a sensible, warm parka, with a knit hat and gloves. Even with 26 degree weather. My wife wears a long sleeve cotton shirt and a skirt that does not possible go below her knees.
Let’s take a look at our combined efforts to keep our house warm. I like to keep the thermostat at a very cozy 72 degrees. It seems my significant other isn’t aware that the perfect temperature for a human dwelling place is 72 degrees. For instance, the other night I awoke at about 3 in the morning from the sound of my very own teeth chattering. I opened my eyes to see icicles dangling from our ceiling fan. I rushed downstairs to see what was up with the furnace.
Someone had set the temperature to 50 degrees! I properly adjusted the thermostat and returned to our bedroom. As I eased into bed, I glanced over at my snoring wife, but I couldn’t see her. I followed the nasal roar to a small hole in the deep pile of blankets, quilts and bed spreads. It was like a cocoon made for arctic explorers and somewhere inside was my wife.
The lesson in feminine logic is clear: When outside in a car, dress half naked and turn up the heat all the way. When in the privacy of your own home, dress like Nan-nook and turn off the heat. Get it?
Now please excuse me while I scrape the frost from my monitor screen.
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