Post by Peace-=Of-God=- on Nov 9, 2006 0:38:25 GMT -5
For those of you who don't get the "Good Clean Fun" daily humor mail from Tom Ellsworth, you're missing something great -- subscribe at good-clean-fun@yahoogroups.com ;D.
Each Veteran's Day and Memorial Day, he sets aside the humor stuff and posts something significant to the day of remembrance. Here's the story that he sent today for this weekend (following his poignant tagline, which I'll quote first):
A Marine on Duty
I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's for a few cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever -- the heat and humidity at the same level -- both too high.
I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace.
An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed. She had a cane and a sheaf of flowers, about four or five bunches as best I could tell. I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: "She's going to spend an hour, my hip hurts like crazy, and I'm ready to get out of here right now!"
But my duty was to assist anyone coming in. Kevin would lock the "in" gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make the last half of happy hour.
I broke Post Attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight; middle-aged man with a small pot-gut and half a limp, in Marine Full Dress Uniform, which had lost its razor crease about 30 minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.
I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint. "Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?"
She took long enough to answer. "Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days."
"My pleasure Ma'am." Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.
She looked again. "Marine, where were you stationed?"
"Vietnam, Ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71."
She looked at me closer. "Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can."
I lied a little bigger. "No hurry, Ma'am."
She smiled, and winked at me. "Son, I'm 85-years old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time."
"Yes, Ma'am. At your service."
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek.
She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.
She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman USMC, 1944.
She paused for a second, "Two more, son, and we'll be done."
I almost didn't say anything, but, "Yes, Ma'am. Take your time."
She looked confused. "Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way."
I pointed with my chin. "That way, Ma'am."
"Oh!" she chuckled quietly. "Son, me and old age ain't too friendly."
She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman USMC, 1970.
She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out. "OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home."
"Yes, Ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?"
She paused. "Yes, Donald Davidson was my father; Stephen was my uncle; Stanley was my husband; Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines." She stopped, whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly, and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin waiting by the car. "Get to the out-gate quick. I have something I've got to do."
Kevin started to say something but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.
"Kevin, stand to attention next to the gate post. Follow my lead." I rushed across the drive to the other post.
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: "Tehen Hut! Present Haaaarms!"
I have to hand it to Kevin, he never blinked an eye; full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud. She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing Duty, Honor and Sacrifice.
I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.
Instead of "The End"....just think of "Taps".
Each Veteran's Day and Memorial Day, he sets aside the humor stuff and posts something significant to the day of remembrance. Here's the story that he sent today for this weekend (following his poignant tagline, which I'll quote first):
I would like to say "thank you" to all the men and women with whom I served, and to especially remember those who aren't with us anymore. As a former Hospital Corpsman, I wish a heartfelt "Semper Fi" to all my Marine friends.
- Tom Ellsworth
(HM2 USN 1965-69)
- Tom Ellsworth
(HM2 USN 1965-69)
A Marine on Duty
I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey's for a few cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go. Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever -- the heat and humidity at the same level -- both too high.
I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace.
An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed. She had a cane and a sheaf of flowers, about four or five bunches as best I could tell. I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: "She's going to spend an hour, my hip hurts like crazy, and I'm ready to get out of here right now!"
But my duty was to assist anyone coming in. Kevin would lock the "in" gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make the last half of happy hour.
I broke Post Attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight; middle-aged man with a small pot-gut and half a limp, in Marine Full Dress Uniform, which had lost its razor crease about 30 minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.
I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman's squint. "Ma'am, may I assist you in any way?"
She took long enough to answer. "Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days."
"My pleasure Ma'am." Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.
She looked again. "Marine, where were you stationed?"
"Vietnam, Ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71."
She looked at me closer. "Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I'll be as quick as I can."
I lied a little bigger. "No hurry, Ma'am."
She smiled, and winked at me. "Son, I'm 85-years old and I can tell a lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd like to see one more time."
"Yes, Ma'am. At your service."
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek.
She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC, 1943.
She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman USMC, 1944.
She paused for a second, "Two more, son, and we'll be done."
I almost didn't say anything, but, "Yes, Ma'am. Take your time."
She looked confused. "Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way."
I pointed with my chin. "That way, Ma'am."
"Oh!" she chuckled quietly. "Son, me and old age ain't too friendly."
She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman USMC, 1970.
She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out. "OK, son, I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home."
"Yes, Ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?"
She paused. "Yes, Donald Davidson was my father; Stephen was my uncle; Stanley was my husband; Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines." She stopped, whether she had finished, or couldn't finish, I don't know. She made her way to her car, slowly, and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin waiting by the car. "Get to the out-gate quick. I have something I've got to do."
Kevin started to say something but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.
"Kevin, stand to attention next to the gate post. Follow my lead." I rushed across the drive to the other post.
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice: "Tehen Hut! Present Haaaarms!"
I have to hand it to Kevin, he never blinked an eye; full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud. She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing Duty, Honor and Sacrifice.
I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.
Instead of "The End"....just think of "Taps".
Indeed! Great story! 
for all of the people working hard to defend our country!!
God bless you Brother Spiller! 
Thanx Andrew 
