Tag: military

Salute

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
A POEM IN THREE ACTS

ACT ONE
(In which the motif is established)

The night after my nephew’s
graduation from Marine
bootcamp (I don’t think they
call it bootcamp) we went

to dinner on Coronado 
Island, seven of us, him in 
the dress uniform he had
spent two hours ironing

because the Marine Hymn
was my hummed ear worm
and every time I turned the
corner of the hotel suite

tromping the shores of
Tripoli, I would see him
and the iron both standing
at attention.  I would laugh

and say, “You really don’t
have to do that,” and he would
say, “Oh, but I do,” and he would
return to ironing until I

would again forget. Finally
pressed, white belt cinched,
white hat and gloves, red
piping, single chevron

on his sleeve, shoes shined
like Easter Sunday, the rest
of us dressed in pride and 
family.  And then that man 

came by our table to say,
“Thank you for your service
to our country,” and we 
were proud. 

ACT TWO
(In which complexities arise)

At our college graduation, 
the president asks for
different types of graduates
to stand - the first in their

family to go to college,
honors, 4.0s, youngest,
oldest, parents-slash-children,
husbands-slash-wives, siblings,

and military veterans, and
every year the vets get
a rousing ovation, the biggest
commencement applause,

and I wonder why it isn’t
the 4.0s or the firsts. This 
is a college after all.  Frankly,
most of us are pacifists. 

Well, the humanities folks
anyway. The parents and 
friends and aunts and uncles
in the audience for our

rural community college
graduation are the ones who
weren’t the first in their family
to go to college, and they

vigorously applaud when
the vets stand, and they yell 
and whistle like the war 
was just won.

ACT THREE
(In which some justice is served)

The yang of the nation
gets ample pomp and
circumstance, plenty of
praise and glory, deserved I

won’t argue, but more so than 
others? Not everyone can soldier, 
but everyone can serve, and
so I offer a salute. 

To the College Professor,
Sherpa of Curiosity, 
Whetstone, Lighthouse, On-Ramp,
Thank you for your service to our country.

To the Bartender,
Purveyor of Magical Elixirs,
Physician, Therapist, Vaudevillian,
Thank you for your service to our country.

To the Lawn Guy,
Rider of the Mechanical Machete,
Weed-Eater, Tree-Trimmer, Suburban Olmsted,

To the Musician and Actor,
Teller of Our Stories,
Drumbeat, Mirror, Catharsis Channel,

To the Delivery Driver,
Foot Soldier of Capitalism,
Dog-Treater, Bringer of Joy, Supply Chain Coda,
Thank you for your service to our country.

To the Farmer,
Maître d’ of the World,
Fence-Mender, Earth Mother, First Cause,

To the Building Contractor and the
Insurance Seller and the Nurse and the
Preschool Teacher and the Social 
Worker and the Mechanic and the 

Writer and the Lawyer, yes, even the
Lawyer, and the Undocumented Farm
Worker and the Bus Driver and the
Convenience Store Clerk and the guy

who stands in the middle of the 
road to stop and start the traffic
that has been reduced to one
lane because of construction,

Thank you for your service to our country. 


© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Karma

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

So, here is the order of events:  I stopped at the ATM yesterday to have some cash on hand to tip my massage therapist.  Because the ATM only spews out twenties, and because I don’t want to set a $20 tip precedent with the aforementioned therapist, I stopped at a convenience store to get a Coke and thus break a twenty.

In front of the convenience store was a man in fatigues sitting at a table collecting money for The Wounded Warrior Project.  Now, I’m all for taking care of returning veterans.  I think we should provide medical care and housing assistance and education and just about any need for those who are willing to put their lives on the line for the pittance we pay them to do that.  But, I have a natural resistance to people asking for money at the entrance to stores.  It’s such a deeply seated antipathy for me that I’m not even fond of the Girl Scouts when they do that.  Yeah, I know.  I’m a jerk.

Getting accosted as I’m entering or leaving a store is just something I don’t like.  It’s bad enough that the WalMart greeters make me feel like a criminal when they eye my cart as I’m leaving the store.  Having my social conscience mauled by the cause of the week takes me over the edge.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am generally a quite generous person.  Even if I’m irritated by the spoken or even silent request, I usually give something.  The non-politically-charged issues are easiest.  Children raising money for new Little League uniforms?  Absolutely.  Salvation Army bell ringers during the holidays?  Hmmm . . . no, I almost never give to religious organizations as most of them have judgments I find unspiritual.  Homeless person on the side of the road?  Sure, most of the time, if I have some cash on hand.

Two bucks.  That’s my standard.  If someone needs it, and I feel good about giving it, then I’ll pull out two bucks and wish them well.

When I entered the convenience store, I only had twenties, of course.  I nodded at the gentleman and mumbled something about needing to get change.  By the time I got my Coke and paid, I had actually forgotten all about his presence, so I was taken a bit off guard when I saw him again.  I almost walked past, but then I stopped and turned around and reached for my wallet.  As I fumbled for two bucks, I had a nice little chat with the gentleman.  He told me about Wounded Warriors and mentioned some of the celebrities involved.  He said that Bill O’Reilly talks about it all the time.  I said that I didn’t care for Bill O’Reilly, but I would give some anyway and smiled.  He backed away from the statement and claimed he didn’t actually watch Bill O’Reilly, but he had just heard that.  I put my money in the jar and wished him well.

I had a few minutes to kill before my massage was to begin, so I stopped in the bookstore.  I had taken $40 out of the ATM, so had the cash available when I found yet another book I just couldn’t live without and probably wouldn’t actually read.  I opened my wallet to pay for the book.  There were a few ones and the ten for my massage tip.  I riffled through the bills for a few seconds and then it dawned on me.  I had mistakenly put a one and a twenty into the donation jar for the Wounded Warriors.

For a brief moment, I had that sinking feeling you get when you don’t have money you thought you had.  I went through a brief analysis of how to retrieve the money and reached a conclusion within about 2.3 seconds that it was simply gone.  I had donated $21 to the Wounded Warrior Project in spite of myself.

As I laid on the massage table a bit later, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that I actually had two legs which could be rubbed and manipulated and pounded into relaxed muscular submission.  And two arms.  And a fully functioning body, even as much as I took it for granted.  I thought about those returning wounded veterans, many of whom could probably benefit from a therapeutic massage, and all of whom gave a precious part of themselves in service to our nation.

As I lay on the massage table, I fully released my internal grip on that twenty.  By the time Kevin patted my shoulder and said, “We’re done; I’ll be waiting for you outside,” my only regret was that I hadn’t given the twenty deliberately.

I left the ten in the tip envelope for Kevin, scheduled my next massage, and walked out into a bright, breezy day with a relaxed body, an empty wallet, and a full heart.  As non-religious as I am, I couldn’t help but think of the words of St. Francis of Assisi: “It is in giving that we receive.”  It is how we become instruments of peace in a warring world.