Coming Home

Going Home

I don’t remember much about my last day in the Corps.  I imagine we had an early formation perhaps followed by turning in our bedding before chow.  I know somewhere along the line, I was dressed in my winter Green uniform there was a pile of papers to sign.  I also remember signing my DD-214 and the 1st Lieutenant that also signed the document that encapsulated my military service in Vietnam and to the US Marine Corps.

I remember purchasing my airline tickets the day before and several of us split the cost and took a cab to the airport.  Though my flight was to depart later in the day, I decided to check in as soon as I arrived at the terminal.  I was told by the clerk that if I hurried, I might catch a plane which was already boarding headed to Atlanta.  I simply asked directions to the gate.  The clerk told me to go to my left and make a right turn at the next hallway and go all the way to the end. I was thrilled to be leaving the West Coast on my way back home.  I wanted to be out of that airport as quickly as possible.

I hauled my seabag up and onto my shoulders and tightened the grip on my AWOL bag then began walking rather hurriedly to the hallway.  When I saw the size of the hall I was blown away.  It was huge and the end of the hallway was not in sight. I knew my pace had to quicken if I wanted to make this flight.  I began running.  Finally I arrived at the gate and offered my ticket.  I asked if I was in time for the flight and they smiled and told me yes.  I was still very much in a hurry mode when I dropped bags on the scale.  “How do I get to the plane.” I asked.  “Just go down that hallway,” she replied.  At this point, I had never boarded a plane except by walking out on the tarmac and going up the ladder steps.  I ran down this hall expecting to come to a door where I would go outside.

The hallway abruptly ended with me nearly knocking-over a flight attendant.  She quickly recovered and after looking at my boarding pass, asked my seating preference.  I wanted nothing to do with conversation so I asked for a seat by the window.  She must have paid attention to the ribbons and medals on my uniform.  Surely she must have seen thousands of men just like me.  She noticed I was a bit shaky and took me to a window seat where the seats beside me would not be occupied.

As I had moved down the isle to my seat, I noticed lots of women and children on the plane.  I saw only a few men and no other military.  I became scared.  How could I trust a flight that had so many incapable civilians on it?  I didn't like being cramped up with so many people that I did not know.  

When the plane had reached its operating altitude and after the captain had given us the flight briefing, an old woman came up and sat in the isle seat beside me.  She at once began to talk to me but I was not listening or paying attention to her.  Almost as quickly, a male flight attendant came to ask our lunch preferences.  I had not spoken to the woman but I damn sure had not spoken to the man so I leaned over and told the woman to tell him that I wanted nothing to eat.  

This is where things changed.  She told the attendant that I did not want to eat but then she looked back around at me and asked me if I wanted a drink.  I hadn’t thought of a drink until she mentioned it.  “Yes, I would,” I replied.  “I would like a rum and coke,” and she responded by turning to the attendant and placing my order.  

Things had really changed in the year that I served in Nam.  “What kind of man would take such a job as a flight attendant,” I wondered?  While in the Marine Corps, I knew without question there was someone watching my back and likewise, I watched their back.  Now I was concerned because there was no one watching my back and yet I felt a need to protect the people on this flight.  I could see no way for this plane to land safely in Atlanta.

The liquor smelled very familiar as I poured it over the ice in the plastic cup.  I then poured a small amount of the coke into the cup and drained the mixture in one long gulp.  The drink refreshed my soul and brought me back to consciousness.  The older woman saw the change in me and offered to keep them coming.  I obliged and with that drink and the many drinks that followed we became involved in conversation.  

For the duration of the flight, I was never without a drink.  I know I spoke to her though I do not recall what I said to her.  I mostly nodded and smiled as she talked.  I do not know if she recognized I was getting drunk.  The only thing I do remember was one question she asked, “I have a grandson in Vietnam in the Army, Do you know him?”  To this day, I wish I had written down her name and perhaps kept in touch.  I don’t know if I would have but it bothers me that I never made the effort.

With a four hour lay over in Atlanta, I decided to continue my drinking at the bar.  I took a seat and a young waitress came up to my table.  I requested a Budweiser.  She looked at me like I was some sort of criminal and then she said, “Are you twenty-one?”  Here I was, a US Marine Corps Vietnam Veteran and I could not drink a lousy beer!   “Fuck you,” came from my lips before I could think of anything else to say as I moved away from the table and back into the terminal.

I was proud of the ribbons and medals I wore.  I had served my country with pride yet, it appeared to me most of the civilians knew more about the medals than I did.  The did not nod their heads and the did not speak.  I am fortunate that no one spit on me or threw shit at me still; I was a lonely Marine moving around a strange terminal and no one gave a hearty damn about me.  

I decided I was hungry at last.  My last meal had been breakfast that morning at Camp Pendleton.  With plenty of money in my pocket, I decided to treat myself with a steak.  The restaurant was nearly empty and all I wanted was to be alone, eat a big meal and hopefully eat my meal in solitude.  Looking back, I believe I was already beginning to experience and even go out of my way to experience isolation which was a term not yet used.  

An old grey haired black man came to wait my table  I had seen him from the corner of my eye moving skillfully around empty tables to get to my table.  I barely acknowledged him as I quickly glanced the list of steaks and finally deciding on the most expensive.  

I told the man my choice and he replied by saying, “Sir, would you like a before dinner cocktail?”  I waived my hand without even looking up and replied, “I am not yet twenty-one.”  “Sir, I didn’t ask if you were twenty-one,” he said.  Now, I looked this man in the eye and saw the glint of a smile.  “Hell yes!  Bring me two rum and cokes.”  I drank the first drink quickly and the second one slowly, savoring the taste. The old man waited from a distance allowing me to drink my beverage without interruption.  

The old black man was skilled at his trade.  My salad came first and he allowed me plenty of time to savor each mouthful of the rich greenery before bringing the main course.  He was in no hurry and neither was I.  I also noticed he never came up to me from my rear.  All of his movements were from the front or my left front.  He moved sort of like a glide around the restaurant.  

“Sir,” he said, “would you like an after dinner cocktail?”  “Hell yes, I said.  Bring me two more of the same!”  Again, I was left with my drinks to watch the planes come and go and to think about where I had been for the past year.  

I left this man a generous tip because he treated me like a Marine and not someone too young to drink.  He treated me like a man and that made me feel like I was home; truly home at last.  As I reflect on this dinner, I am brought to tears remembering this man’s grace and compassion for a lost Marine.  I never saw such a person ever again.  

Cecil Pickler

March 20, 2014

First Challenge

Understandably, I was scared and nervous.  This was my very first night on perimeter guard duty.  I wondered if this night would pass without trouble and if trouble did happen, would I react as I was trained or would I disgrace myself in shame.  I had been in-country for only a week and had not adjusted to the sounds and smells of war.  “This shit is real!” I thought to myself.

I arrived at my post without ceremony.  I carried my M-16 with a full bandolier of ammo and wore my flak jacket and helmet.  When I arrived at fighting hole “A” of Bunker #5, the previous guard simply came out of the hole and told me it had been quiet.  He didn’t look me in the eye but rather held his head down and spoke softly as he moved away from the post.  That was it!  There was no “bootcamp” rhetoric, no handshakes and no real exchange of information; just a tired acknowledgement of a completed mission.

I quickly slipped into the fighting hole and by that act alone; I had assumed the responsibility of base security at that location.  I was nineteen years old!  I had not yet lived but I was capable and ready to defend my post even if it required my life.  This was not a “John Wayne” moment but rather the result of pride in having chosen to be a Marine.  I didn’t know if my chest was swelling because of the pride or a rapid heart rate but I felt like my chest was soon to explode.

I placed my rifle on the parapet and took stock of my supplies.  I had fragmentation grenades, illumination grenades and pop-up flares.  I inserted an 18 round clip into my rifle and sent a round home.  I checked to make sure my safety was on and then I began to settle down for my tour of duty.  I had everything I needed with me.  I had plenty of ammo and I was well trained.  Perhaps my tour of duty in this hole would be quiet too.

Each bunker had two men on duty and each fighting hole was big enough to hold two men.  Bunker #5 was at the corner of the base and had a powerful search light attached to the roof.  The light could be rotated to shine on both sides of the berm.  No one actually stayed in the bunker because, if the shit hit the fan, the gooks would take out the bunkers first.  For bunker #5, we were in fighting holes on each side of the bunker.  My partners name was Stan and he was from Alabama.  Stan was a lance corporal (L/Cpl) and had been in Nam for about six months.  I knew I could count on him if I needed any help. 

Lt. Something (I changed his name to protect the innocent) was on duty that night as the Officer of the Day.  I had been told he was a career officer and made it his duty to be hard on snuffy’s like me.  His duty included checking all perimeter posts to ensure security measures were adequate.  In the event of a problem, he would be making the decisions.  Since I didn’t want any trouble from him, I was not only watching out front for gooks but watching inside the compound for Lt. Something!  My watch was just beginning.  Would I last long enough to be relieved?

Since I was watching inside wire and out, it was no surprise when I was a figure coming toward my post from inside the wire.  I assumed the figure was Lt. Something.  I put my helmet on, grabbed my rifle and Hollered HALT!  At that point, I forgot everything I had learned about reporting a post.  Lt. Something stopped and stood silently as I exited the fighting hole.  I walked to the OD and held my rifle at the standard “Present Arms” as my salute to him.  I did not speak. 

After a lengthy pause, the Lieutenant said, well?” 

Embarrassed by my blank mind I said “Oh, bunker number five is all secure Sir!”   

Lt. Something returned my salute but I continued to hold my rifle at “Present Arms.”  He then touched my rifle and told me I could be at ease.  I suppose he quickly understood I was new to Vietnam.

He then instructs me in how I should have reported my post.  “Sir, Bunker #5 is all secure.  All orders remain the same, nothing has happened during my tour of duty except (this is where you would elaborate if anything had happened).”

He then asked about my supplies in the fighting hole.  He was not the hardass I had been anticipating.  He obviously knew I was new to Nam and he obviously knew I was shaking in my boots.  He corrected me without demeaning me.  He told me he would come back later and check me again to see if I remembered his instruction to me. 

After Lt. Something left, I smiled as I mentally and vigorously kicked myself.  I KNEW how to report a post and yet my mind went blank.  I must have looked like a complete idiot to the lieutenant.  I silently, yet audibly, told myself that I just needed to settle down and do the right things. 

At this point, I knew I still had to watch inside the perimeter and outside because the Lieutenant said he would come back.  I surely did not want to mess up our second meeting.

An hour passed without event.

“Halt!  Halt!” I heard Stan say. 

I thought to myself the lieutenant has come back.  I put my helmet on and grabbed my rifle.  I am going to be ready this time.

“Pick, Grab the Light!” cried Stan.

Suddenly it occurred to me that we have activity in the wire in front of Stan’s fighting hole.  I left my hole and ran to the bunker.  Since Stan’s position was opposite my position, I turned the light in his direction.  My light has scarcely moved when I saw a gook in the wire. 

The gook was standing there waving his arms and caught in our concertina wire.  I brought my rifle to bear on the man and also commanded him to HALT!  The man continued to move about but was still caught in the wire.  I released the safety on my rifle and was preparing to shoot when Stan told me not to shoot. 

The whole perimeter guard was on high alert now and 60 mm mortar flares were being fired to light up the whole area.  It was exciting and my adrenalin was working at 100% capacity. 

“The sergeant of the guard is on his way to check this out,” said Stan.

I can tell you now that I was shaking really bad.  I had never killed a man before and here I stand ready to do just that.  Even though I shook with fear, I was absolutely confident my shot would hit my mark.  At that moment, I knew I was prepared and ready to kill.  If I fired my weapon, this man would not survive.  This was my moment of truth.

I maintained my aim on the man caught in the wire.  If he moved, the issue would be settled. 

Word came down the line that the Sergeant of the guard was going to go out into the wire and bring the man into the compound.  Everyone should be on the alert and ready to respond if necessary.

“Damn, whoever that is, he must be the bravest man alive,” I thought.

I watched as our man moved through the lines to capture the man.  The man made no attempt to flee.  After a few minutes, both men began the trip back inside our wire.  For awhile longer, I searched the area in front of our positions by moving the big light slowly across our front.  Stan told me to secure (this means to stop) the light and go back to my fighting hole.  I adjusted the big light to shine out to the front of the bunker and then slipped back into my own fighting hole.

Once back inside my hole, my senses much sharper, I realized my heart was still racing from the encounter.  I was pleased with my actions and proud to be a Marine.  I had survived my first encounter.

A few minutes after getting back in my hole, the corporal of the guard joined me.  He appeared to be more shaken than I was.  He told me he had less than two weeks to go before he went home.  He wasn’t going to do anything stupid and get himself killed this close to his departure date. 

As the corporal and I talked softly, we both heard a distinctive sound in front of my position.  Concertina wire in front of our lines had cans tied to the wire with a couple of rocks inside.  If someone or something hit the wire, it would cause the rocks inside the cans to make a noise.  THAT was the sound we heard. 

Proper procedure was to call up the command bunker and ask for permission to fire a pop-up illumination flare.  Once permission was granted, we would illuminate the area and see what was making the noise.  The corporal of the guard told me to call the command bunker on the landline as he prepared a flare.  As I was asking for permission, the corporal fired the flare.  He was not waiting for permission! 

Right out in front of my position was another gook!  Again, it appeared someone was caught on the concertina wire.  This time, Stan went to the corner bunker and adjusted the light to shine on the person in front of my position.  Once again, the whole perimeter was on full alert and once again, mortar flares were being fired to light up the whole area. 

The corporal was really shaken this time.  I thought I was going to have to knock him out to keep him from hurting himself or me.  Like everyone who had survived that long in Nam, he had become afraid that he would not live to go home unless he was more careful than ever.  Again the sergeant of the guard went out and brought this person into the base.  Marines do that kind of thing.  He was brave but bravery is expected in the Marine Corps.

After all the fireworks had stopped, the line calmed down.  We were still on high alert, but we were all back to breathing normally.  Finding someone in our wire was a very serious problem.  The people we found in our wire could have been testing our strength or locating our mines or preparing to set off satchel charges in our holes. 

The Lieutenant never came back to inspect my post.  In fact, I didn’t see him again until I gave him a lot of trouble a few months later but that is another story.

I grew a lot older that night in Vietnam because I had survived my first challenge.

LET'S TALK ABOUT BED BUGS

The first thing I want to say is 

IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE BED BUGS,

DO NOT THROW YOUR MATTRESS AND BOX SPRINGS ON THE CURB!

I have seen all to many mattresses on the street with bed bugs in them. The problem is, someone is going to think these mattresses look better than the mattresses they have at home and there goes another bed bug infestation. Taking the mattresses to the street is also a good way to infest other areas of the home or apartment building. An example could be the help required to move the mattress could come from a person living somewhere else. That person will have direct contact with the mattress and could unknowingly come into contact with bed bug eggs. Usually, before a box spring or mattress is successfully removed, it has to touch walls and is allowed to sit on the floor. All of these situations have the potential for spreading a bed bug infestation.

On the average, I do about twenty-five inspections per week for bed bugs. The inspection is critical because an accurate identification must be made prior to determining treatment options. Inspection points may include mattresses, box springs, bed frames, head boards, carpet, electrical plates and even shoes in a closet. Bed bugs can hide anywhere! Once bed bugs have been identified, I must determine the proper treatment method.

In most cases, I will recommend a heat treatment because of the higher success rate. Our heat treatments also include a conventional treatment. At Pest Management Systems Inc. we do this because we want to go the extra mile for our customers. When we perform a heat treatment, all rooms and all items in the rooms reach temperatures of over 120 degrees. To accomplish this, we use multiple heaters and fans to achieve the heat level and we track the heat levels in each room by remote computer.

Performing a heat treatment eliminates the need to take all your bed linens, clothes, and such to a laundry and wash and dry them. That is a pretty tough assignment for most folks and could cause the infestation to spread to other places.

Our conventional treatment involves the use of several different products that are EPA registered. We employ specific products for each type of application i. e. mattresses and wall voids. With a conventional treatment, we use products in cracks and crevices of beds so it is necessary for us to take the beds apart.

Providing treatments for bed bugs is not a new thing for us and we are fully capable of handling your bed bug needs. We have the experience and the equipment necessary for your particular situation. Please feel free to contact me if you have questions relating to a possible infestation. I will be glad to help. My email address is: cpickler@pestmgt.com. Send me an email and we can discuss your particular concerns.

Thank You

You Don't Know Me

You Don’t Know Me

You think you know me but I say I am not whom you think.

Yes, I am an old man who has a kind and gentle voice

You’ve always known me as a hard working man,

Yet a man who took time from work to play with his children.

You have called me sentimental because I cried for a friend,

But you have not seen the real me, I’ve been hiding for so long.

I wanted you to think I was a kind and gentle man,

But the truth is, a fire has raged within me all these years.

Many times I thought of quenching the fire with blood

Of ending the life you never knew.

But something has always stopped me dead in my tracks.

Twas the battle inside of me, wouldn’t let me quit or give in.

You may have noticed, I tended to shy away from crowds,

And I seldom took a voice against your views.

I wanted no limelight for me, oh no, the darker the better.

But the world is changing and our values are being forgotten.

I have come to let you know about the man you never knew,

Perhaps together, we can fight and win just one more battle.

I came from a family built on love and a strong belief in God,

We paid our debt to live free in the land of plenty.

We served our military, all of us, without a second thought.

But only I served our country in the rice paddies of Vietnam.

As Vietnam vets, we did our duty, and too many paid the ultimate price

I still hear their screams of their tortured pain, it plagues me every day.

We came home to a country that called us baby killers,

We were spat on and some of us were clubbed.

So we learned early on to keep our stories to ourselves.

And for that we suffered alone and profoundly.

But now you need to know, We aren’t finished

And the country we need to fight for is our own.

We refuse to give our country to the forces that seek its death.

We stand ready and willing to fight for every hard working American.

Who still cannot speak for themselves but who holds the truth.

We are among the aged of our country but our spirit is fresh.

We are willing, perfectly willing to stand between evil and good,

In obedience to our pledge to serve and defend our constitution.

We have fought for those oppressed before and we will again

It is the way it should be for the warriors of our day.

We will fight for the voices that may have been silenced

But make no mistake, we will fight for total victory.

We seek no medals nor do we seek fame.

Our goal and what this war is for, is our human rights as Americans

Do not let the missing limbs or the wheelchairs bother you,

For there is still a lot of punch in our old bones.

Do not be persuaded to move in our stead, but stand with us,

We are capable and our force is many.

We will fight as brothers once again, till death do us part,

It is our mission and we will not be deterred.

c pickler 3/24/2010

To Debbie

I want you, but not because you are beautiful.  I want you but not for your money.  I want you but not for your influence in the world.

I want you because our connection is genuine.  I want you because you forgave me.  I want you because you bring brightness to my otherwise dreary days.  I want you because you hold me tightly when memories of a past life pull me toward the dark.  I want you because it is easy to share with you.  I want you because you include me in your struggles.  I want you because of the your continued effort to build our relationship instead of letting it stagnate. 

I want you because when we are together, there is no power that can destroy the miracle of our love.  I want you because you listen to my scatterbrained ideas, you smile at my rough jokes and you dream right along with me. 

Simply said, I want you because I love you.

Hospital Chaplain

Hospital Chaplain

In 1984, while serving my first year as an adjunct chaplain at a local hospital, I met a patient who helped broaden my concept of pastoral care.  Indeed, as a first year student/Chaplain, this patient taught me more than the classroom could have ever taught me.  He taught me the meaning of life and the value of brotherhood and I had no expectations at all when I was first introduced to him.

I was working the Saturday rotation.  My duty required me to be in the hospital for twenty-four hours and to minister to the spiritual needs of the patients and their families.  When I was on duty, I was the on-call Chaplain for any emergency that occurred during my period of duty.  Nurses and doctors would have me paged to come to the area of need.  When on duty, I wore the traditional white jacket with the word Chaplain embroidered above the left breast pocket.   I also wore a necktie and my hospital identification badge provided me with access to critical care areas.  I was easily recognizable.

On this particular Saturday, I received a call to go to the emergency room.  Messages were usually delivered by the hospital operators and did not include any information other than to instruct me as to where I was needed.  Since I was needed in the Emergency Room, I assumed the worst.  As I journeyed to the ER, I silently prayed that God would use my voice to His purpose.  When I arrived at the nurses’ station, I asked about their need for me. 

We have a man who was brought in drunk.  He has a blood alcohol level of .32% which is very high. The police brought him in and said they had found him sitting in the middle of a quiet street.  He isn’t injured but we can’t let him leave until we can determine his blood alcohol level is going down instead of climbing.  We can’t put him a treatment room because we have other patients and the only place we can put him is in the waiting room.  Our problem with him is he is bothering the people in the waiting room, the nurse said as if at her wits end.  He is asking for money and just being a drunk.

“Does he have family?” I asked.

“He has a niece named Kathy,” the nurse replied.  “We have tried to call her but we’ve gotten no answer,” she said in explanation.

“How will I know him?” I asked. 

“He is in a wheel chair and only has one leg,” the nurse replied as she turned to attend to the needs of the other patients.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked the nurse who had already turned away.

“Whatever you want to, just keep him out of our hair and away from the other people in the waiting room!  We have a lot of other patients who need physical help and there is no one else we can call,” she said disgustedly. 

While a hospital chaplain is on duty for the patients, we are also on duty to help the staff as they deal with difficult issues of death and dying.  I was a little confused by the request to sit with a bothersome drunk.  I was mentally prepared to deal with a life and death situation and here I was asked to sit with a drunken one legged man.  I wondered what I would do and what I could do.  I felt very unprepared for the work ahead and a little frustrated that I was being asked to do this.

The man was easy to spot.   He was in a wheel chair and his intoxication was obvious.  He was even leaning outward in his wheel chair to speak with the person nearest to him.  “God help me,” I prayed as I moved to talk to him.

“Are you John?” I asked the man sitting in a wheel chair.  Even at first glance, it was obvious; this man was feeling no pain as the odor of alcohol engulfed the area around him.

 “Do you know me?” the man replied skeptically as he looked up at me with eyes that seemed to search my soul. 

“Have you heard from Kathy?  How is she doing?” I asked, not answering his question but trying to demonstrate I knew not only his name but other things about him as well.  I will admit, I was having a little fun with John.  It was my justification for being asked to attend to a drunk.

“You do know me!” he exclaimed loudly.   You do know me!” he said again with a look on his face that showed happiness mixed with surprise.

“How do you know me? He asked.

“Do you see what is written on my coat?” I said as I pointed to the word Chaplain. 

“You’re the Chaplain,” he replied. 

“That’s right John, I am the Chaplain and you may not know this but Chaplains are usually good people who care about other people,” I said in partial explanation for my presence.

I knew I would never be able to talk to John while he was in the waiting room.  There were too many people in the waiting room to have a decent conversation and I believed conversation was necessary for anything I might decide to do with him.  John was also using more volume than necessary which was one of the reasons for my being called for assistance.  At least I now understood the reason for my presence was to reduce the stress between John, those in the waiting room and the staff.  I also knew I was going to be with John for at least a couple of hours and I wanted to find a place where we could both be more comfortable.  I chose the doctors lounge which was around the corner yet still near to the emergency room. 

“Yes, I am the Chaplain and I like to walk around the hospital talking to people I meet.  I would like to talk to you if you don’t mind,” I said with as much interest as I could put into it.  “Do you mind if I roll you to another location where we can talk?” I asked.

“No, I don’t mind at all,” replied John who now had someone to talk to and perhaps someone who would help him find enough money for cab fare back home.

The doctor’s lounge was a small room with a couch and a television.  Sometimes the doctors used the room to take a short nap when the work load was light and sometimes they used the room to break difficult news to family members.  I knew this room would be close to the staff but far enough away from the waiting room to make everyone happy.  I informed the nursing staff of our new location and received a curt smile for my thoughtfulness.

“John, how long have you been drunk?” I asked after getting him settled in the lounge. 

“Well, I guess about three years,” he replied without waiting for a better answer to come to his mind.

“That’s a long time,” I said while thinking it must have been a much longer time than that. 

John had the appearance of a man who lived in the bottle; who did not work for a living but rather spent his time in the throes of drunkenness.  I had seen his kind many times before.   Unshaven, unclean and uncaring, John was an outcast in society.  That is why no one wanted to talk to him in the waiting room and that was why the nursing staff just wanted to be rid of him.  I had made my own quick assessment but I was to also soon to learn, my judgment was in error.

“I am going to quit drinking,” said John.  “I have some wine at home and when I get home, I am going to pour it all out,” he said as if he thought that would make me happy and he could avoid my sermon to him.

Actually I knew he was not ready to make such a commitment.  His statement too was typical of things a typical drunk might say.  He was probably praying that I wasn’t going to preach to him like some preachers do and condemn him for his actions.  While John presented a very typical view of a classical drunk, there was something different about him that intrigued me.  I wanted to know more.

“How did you lose that leg?” I asked rather brazenly.

This time John looked into my eyes and was silent.  Tears quickly began to run wildly down his cheeks and dropped onto his shoes with a splatter. His head dropped and his body shook as his tears continued to fall.  I felt uncomfortable and regretted asking such a painful question. 

It happened in Nam.  We were sweeping through a vile and I saw there was this little baby lying on the ground crying.  Man, I have always hated to see a baby cry so I picked it up hoping to make it stop crying.  Man, the baby was booby trapped!   Those fooking Gooks killed that baby! I don’t know what kind of people would do something like that just to kill an American?  The booby trap took my leg and nearly got the other one too!  I keep seeing that baby lying on the ground.  That baby is in all of my dreams and I hate sleeping because that baby is always there! I wish Doc had just left me there to die.

I didn’t know what I had expected from his answer but I was not expecting this.  I suppose I expected him to say he lost his leg in a logging accident or a car wreck or some other tragic event.  Upon hearing these words, I looked at John more closely.  He appeared to be about the same age as I was and yet his life had taken a different route than mine.

Suddenly I found myself with John as he participated in the sweep of that village.  I could see the child in his mind because I too had seen so many desperate children during my tour in Vietnam as a Marine.  Since my return from Vietnam, I had worked feverishly to forget the trauma of war.  I had buried the harshness of war and hoped never to confront the images of war again.  Yes, I had buried the faces of the children I had seen as well.

The children I had seen were hungry and desperate.  Their lives had been torn as their country had been torn by a savage war.  Many children bore the scars of desperate battles in which their safety was a last concern.  I recalled one little girl I held on my lap and who was an orphan.  She had endured the pain of having a leg shortened by a fragment from a grenade.  I had never in my life seen the destruction of a child but in Vietnam, it seemed commonplace.

John was not the derelict drunk I had initially envisioned but rather a soldier who had lost his innocence in the jungles of Vietnam.  Though we had never met before that night, John and I were brothers.  Vietnam veterans typically refer to others who fought in Vietnam as brothers because regardless of the branch of service, we endured some of the same hardships.  That war, more than anything else in our lives, defined us as men and as warriors at a time when many actively chose to leave the country instead of serving.  I held onto John as the pain racked his body and now it was our tears which flowed freely. 

“John, I served in Vietnam too.  I was in the Marine Corps and I understand what you are saying.  I have seen the children of that war and I have grieved over the horrific price they paid in that war.  I know no one else understands what it was like for us.  They can’t imagine the destruction we saw or the terror we felt.  The only people who understand what it was like are the ones who served there.  This makes us brothers John, and I want you to know I am proud to call you brother.”

John and I had answered our country's call to military service.  We had been young men when we learned the fine art of killing the enemy but we were never taught how to handle a small child who was being used as a booby trap.  I was ashamed of all who had met John and had turned their backs on him.  I was ashamed of myself and my quick judgment that labeled John as a common drunk.

John and I talked for a couple of hours and developed a bond. We talked about the good times we had both experienced in the military and of places we had been.  We talked about our personal fears of coming home and how we tried to find our way in a civilization that had now seen war.  Though John was Army and I was a Marine, our experiences were similar.  In the couple of hours we spent together, I found a new friend; a brother.  During the time we talked, I felt we both managed to find a little depth to our souls and a small bit of peace.

The hospital maintained a small fund that was to be used by the Chaplain when he deemed it necessary.  John would have his ride home in a cab and it would be paid for by our fund.   It was fun rolling John through the waiting room and past the ones who had been bothered by him.  I was prepared to help John get into the cab yet he was insistent that he could do it all himself.  Once seated, he gave me a salute which I gladly returned in honor of our brotherhood.  I gave the driver the money required and warmly hugged the man whom I considered a hero.  I wished him well and again I welcomed him home.

Two months passed and one night while making my rounds in the ER, I saw the same nurse that was there the night John was brought in.  This night was different and the case load was much lighter.  She smiled as she saw me approach.  She remembered me.  I suppose she remembered because John’s case was a different situation from the normal emergency needs and it lasted for several hours.

“I haven’t seen you around here lately but I guess you heard,” she said.

 “Heard what?” I asked with interest.

“That fellow, the one they brought in drunk that night and you talked with him for so long, well he died a couple of weeks ago,” she replied.  “They brought him back in here but he was already gone,” she said.

I was shocked and surprised.  Yes, I remembered John and the night we had become brothers.  I had hoped, no I had prayed that John would find another way to deal with his pain and that he would leave the alcohol behind.  I was immediately saddened by this news.  I wondered if there was more I could or should have done.

“His name was John,” I said while looking intently into her eyes.  You probably didn’t know it, but he was a hero with all kinds of medals, including the Purple Heart, awarded for service in Vietnam.   I will miss him,” I said softly as I turned away. 

I didn’t cry then but later when I was alone, I let loose with tears equal to the tears I had shed for the many friends that did not come back.  I prayed that God would be generous to this soldier who had endured so much and at such a cost.  I prayed that God would forgive me for my failure to see a hero who needed peace.

CP July 2008

Ah, THE SMELL OF HOMEMADE BISCUITS

Have you ever smelled biscuits cooking in the oven?  I know this is a strange question but I am guessing you have not.  No, today we open a can of biscuits that Pillsbury made and we cook them according to the instructions on the can.  Those biscuits are great and I eat them myself but I do remember the smell of biscuits cooking in the oven and canned biscuits do not compare to the real thing.

 I remember the smell of biscuits cooking in my childhood kitchen.  If you were inside the house, the smell of hot biscuits was the signal to come to the table, our meal was almost ready.   Notice I did not say dinner; biscuits were made for every meal in those days.  I never gave much thought to the smell associated with biscuits being cooked, but there is a distinct odor that overrides other succulent odors in the kitchen. 

In my youth, I took those odors for granted.  It simply meant we were about to eat.  I did not consider the love that prepared the meal nor did I consider the logistics of a particular meal.  My father occasionally cooked a meal but the task of preparing meals was my moms and she was very good at taking care of us with her cullinary skills.  It was what we did back then.  We gathered, as a family, at “the” table and ate the meal mother had prepared.  I still don’t like liver but back then, I ate liver very slowly one very very small piece at a time.  It was that simple and yet today I see it all as having profound meaning.

There was no central air conditioning back then and even when it was cold outside, the kitchen was tight and warm.  For many years after we had left the home our gathering place was in the kitchen and not the living room.  In the summer months, we could smell a meal being prepared from the back yard.  We didn’t know life could be any different.  We didn’t know some families never sat together for a meal and we didn’t know how special it was for us at that time.  We passed the biscuits and deepened our love for each other without giving it much thought.  It just happened. 

All of us watched mother as she made the biscuits.  She could have taught the class on multi-tasking because she could mix the ingredients, stir the lima beans and set the table all at the same time.  She never measured anything when she made biscuits.  She would pour flour into the big wooden bowl and then create a hole in the middle with her hand.  Then she would put some lard in the middle and as she began to work the lard and flower together, she would add the buttermilk.  She never made a mess and she knew exactly how much to use to fill up the bread pan.  When all of the ingredients were thoroughly mixed, she would pull off a small piece of dough and form it into a biscuit.  The last thing she did to the biscuit was put a dimple in the very middle.  It was like her stamp of approval. 

All of mom’s biscuits were the same size and she cooked them at around 425⁰ until they were golden brown.  Occasionally she would create what we called a “hotdog” biscuit that was long instead of round.  Those biscuits were the prize we all wanted.  If we saw mom making bread, we would ask if there would be a hotdog biscuit.  If we saw a hotdog biscuit being formed, we laid claim to it before it even entered the oven.

Since we all watched mom make biscuits we kind of knew how to make biscuits ourselves.  Several months after I was married, I called my mother and asked her to guide me through as I made biscuits for my wife.  I was going to surprise her by making dinner and providing homemade biscuits.  I had all of the ingredients on the kitchen table and I was ready.  Mom told me to put some flour into my bowl.  I asked her how much and she said just put some in there.  Then she told me to make a hole in the middle and I moved my hand in the flour just like I had seen her do it so many years before. 

“Now put your lard in the middle,” she instructed. 

“How much,” I asked?

“Just get some on the ends of your fingers,” she replied.

As things progressed, I had no idea of how much of anything.  In the end, I had dough up to my elbows and it was a pure mess.  I hung up the phone and threw the whole pan full of pain into the trash can.  We dined that night on the meal I had cooked and some loaf bread.  The next time I cooked biscuits, they were edible.  All of us children could make biscuits but they were never as good as mom’s.

Our table was crowded but if one of us was missing, we all felt it.  It wasn’t the same and we all knew it.  Our food did not have fancy names but came from the garden of which we toiled with our own hands.  We all knew how to hoe the beans, pick the tomatoes, shuck the corn and snap the beans.   We knew how to lay a row and drop the seeds at the proper intervals.  We also learned how to use manure to make things grow bigger and better.  It was the way we lived then and at the time, we took it for granted.  Perhaps we even silently told ourselves that when we grew up, things would be different.

Chickens in the yard made many a Sunday meal.  It was special the way mom fried up a chicken making use of all the parts including the neck.  There was a crust on the chicken that would have made a staunch vegetarian a chicken lover.  No one could fry chicken like mother did.  Fatback gravy poured over crumbled biscuits or “hocake” along with some green beans and we were set to go.  Cornbread and milk and greens made yet another memorable meal. 

Christmas in the days of my childhood was a very special time not so much because of what we received but by the cooking mother would do.  There were numerous pumpkin pies, sweet potato pies, real chocolate cake with cooked icing and a coconut cake with real coconut.  These were made from scratch and our mothers love.  The most special part of this was there was no limit on how much you could have.  I once ate a whole pumpkin pie before breakfast on one Christmas morning.  It was just so good; I could not stop eating it.  The presents we received soon faded but the beauty of our kitchen was something that lives still.

A natural part of life is growth and so it happened with us.  David left first to be a US Marine and we felt the significant loss of his presence.  Gloria followed when she and Del were married.  Later I left to be a Marine followed by Doug who left to be a Soldier.  Karen went to college, Japan, Seminary and then to the great state of New York to do her work.  Joyce amazed us all by being the most tenacious and by her joy and ability in playing the piano.

We have each taken our own paths in life and established our own kitchens.  Professionals in every sense, our families embody the essence of the kitchen of our childhood.  We still hold the family table as something honorable and sacred.   We still abide by the table as a meeting place, a reference point and a common point of contact.  Even though the scriptures tell us in one part of a verse that “Man does not live by bread alone,” we continue to smell the bread in the oven of our childhood and we embrace the hands that prepared the meals that enabled us to become adults.  I may not have understood the true value of mom’s biscuits when I was young, but today the memory of the odor of bread in the oven carries me home and to a time of uncompromised love.