Tired

I'm tired. I've done a lot, well, enough anyway. I'm 59 years old and holding. Of course I'm holding on to 59 because I don't turn 60 for another 9 months. Hmm, 9 months, is that Freudian? I have a wife of over 30 years marriage and an exwife who couldn't handle me for more than 2 1/2 years.

Naturally, the first marriage lasted long enough for me to end up paying child support for one child. Yes, I paid it but in inventive ways. I got letters from the counties involved with the case, but never received a visit or letter from the Deputy. I paid by the contract and that really angered some people including my ex mother-in-law, lol, lol, lol. I did it all legally. That "beach"..., uh, never mind, that's the ancient history that makes me grind my teeth at night.

I said I was tired. (I'm old enough to call all teenagers "Whippersnappers", or "them danged, inconsiderate brats", etc. if I want to. I don't. I like the young bunch. I'd even listen to their music in my house and car with them, no problem.) What makes me tired is the thing that only older folks have experienced. The end of it all. I'm not getting morbid or pitiful I merely mean that I, like most most folks my age or older, are well past middle age. It means that an active adult has made many mistakes and has had many successes, hopefully more of the later than the former. At some point, if a person is physically active, the body still starts to breakdown. I get tired because I get more than one pain at a time. I get the painful thing fixed and find something else is starting the breakdown. You know what I mean. You have heard the comedy routine of a fellow who complains that he has a headache. His buddy wants to know if he can help relieve the headache and the ill partner says, "Yeah, please!". At that point his good buddy stomps the sick friends foot as hard as he can. The headache is forgotten.

The last 5 years I've had various urinary problems. (Sensitive men might want to go watch the TV news at this point) Kidney stones, bladder stones, BPH/Enlarged Prostate, overactive bladder, "E.D." Those stones make a 50 something walk like a 90 something! Your bowels ain't right, you don't pee right, you wake the wife up several times at night for the wrong reasons, you don't walk right. I peed like a leaky coffee cup, a few drops or a small weak stream straight down, sometimes in my lap.

The kidney stones were several years ago. I passed 7 of them. I named them for the 'other' 7 dwarfs, Stumpy, Sleazy, Stuck, SOB, Bent Pipes, Stoned and Doc. Things went well for a while till I developed BPH (look it up). Small pee tube means you don't pee too much at a time. Sex will allow you to experience "reverse ejaculation". That will make your wife look at you and ask, "Are you faking it with ME?" (again, look it up). I told you guys to go watch TV!

The BPH was treated at the doctors office by a procedure known as a TUMT. The 'M' stands for Microwave. They gave me Demarol in the butt cheek, Hydrocodone and Valium by mouth with a B&O (O for synthetic Opium) suppository. I was feeling really fine. In the car on the way to the doctors office I was quite the comedian for my wife, the 30+ year one. The good doctor, having had my pants and underwear removed and my feet placed in the 'stirrups' by the nurses (again, you ladies know what I'm talking about) gently placed/shoved/crammed a tube into my pee tube, then placed another tube into that one. He turned on the machine and commenced to cook the inside of my prostate with microwaves. I've 'burnt' weiners in the kitchen microwave oven and saw the results. I know that later, for about a month I peed out chunks of meat. At first they were soft and large, then what was left inside had become calcified so that it felt like I was pissing pieces of potato chips. During this procedure, in spite of all the drugs, IT HURT!!!!! I was laying there with my pants off and tubes up my uh uh and two nurses watching me and holding my hands to keep me from grabbing anything I shouldn't. The doctor even put a Nitro pill under my tongue. I guess he thought I didn't look too good anymore. Went home and took out my catheter, by doctors orders, by myself three days later soon before the next appointment. It's so easy to do.

Then came the bladder stones. Another story of self torture and tears.

4 weeks ago I got that all fixed. The good doctor . . .

. . .now here I am at 63. I started this a few years ago, obviously. Update? I now know for certain that when you turn 60 years old ALL your body parts turn 60 at the same time. I'm 3 years past that. Prostate is behaving itself after some science fiction surgery. Before my retirement I got a hernia and after I retired I tore up my right Rotator Cuff. I'm still tired but have rested up considerably since I don't have to do what the boss says any longer, oh, wait, I'm married. Forget what I said about bosses in the previous sentence. I've said enough about all that for now.

Changing Society

Pay no attention to what I say. You can not argue with me because I am right. Arguments against me prove you are wrong, therefore I grouse about the followng. Of course society is changing. Evidence of that is all around us. See the new technologies, new laws, different political ideologies, new religions, more Gays, more Atheists, more Muslims, wars and rumors of wars? Talk to the "Old Folks". They'll tell you how things used to be. Ask them how it was when THEIR grandparents walked the Earth. It seems that these changes perceived by me are very recent. Electricity, cars, planes, buses, trains, computers, electronic calculators, television, radio, steel ships, mega buildings, sonar, deep sea exploration, space travel, and so on are very new things compared to the history of man. It used to be that in all societies, with only a few variations, everything stayed the same. No one ever traveled faster than the fastest animal that could carry or pull them. Young men grew up to be what their fathers had been and only then after some sort of manly initiation. Young women became mothers. What were the differences between people of 8,000 years ago and people of 1,000 years ago or even 200? Not many I'd say.

Religion is about the same, though. All religion is about man reaching out to some perceived god and trying to please him or them. Sacrifices of animals, food, children or maidens were the rule. Judaism and Christianity seems to be the only religions that state God reaches out to us, not the other way around. Of course there are the "Enlightened" who claim God does not exist. There are many who claim that there are many, even millions of gods. Don't forget there are those who believe all Bibles and religious writings are obsolete and laughable.

Wars never change except for technological advances for peace which are also used  for war and were fought because some group did not like another group or a king wanted more riches or because of some perceived insult. I think they were fought because of some old family grudges that became clan grudges that became tribal grudges that became national or racial grudges and hate. Jews/Hebrews/Israeli's/Muslims/Arabs/Palestinians are related. All Africans are related as are all Europeans, (the "Limeys" and "Micks" go at it once in awhile. I am descended from them) and so on. In reality ALL people are related and are shades of brown, NOT black, white or "of color" and certainly not striped, speckled, checkered, etc. And yet they all find reasons to attack their brothers and sisters so that innocents get hurt to the point of death. One side will claim they are just as does the other side. The Kaiser's army had belt buckles that said "God is with us." World War II Allies prayed that God would give them the victory.

I think, ultimately, people are the same, period. Children who are lucky have different toys, but they all have play time when possible. Women get pregnant or occasionally adopt other's offspring. Men go off to war or work except in some societies where women did and do the same also. Someone has to do the killing or sweating. There have always been single parent families for any reason.

Who am I to judge? Christians are every bit as bad as any other group you can mention. I am a Christian and am thinking about jabbing my finger in the eyes of other Christians who say stupid and non biblical things. I hear people say things that are simply silly, such as, "You need Jesus in your heart", or "Ask Jesus into your heart." These statements ain't in the Bible. Jesus ain't here; He's at the right hand of God the Father, Act 7:55-56, Romans 8:24, Ephesians 8:24 and others.

My grandpa said that there are many men with many minds and it takes a whole lot of cranks to make the world go 'round, 'nough said, thanks Grandpa.

 

A Sacred Obligation

A Sacred Obligation

 or What Did You Do Today?

­ Tom Wann, Historian, American Legion Post 286, Odessa, Mo.

Members of the Funeral Honors Team get to the VFW building half an hour before the funeral is over. They load up the vehicles with weapons and flags of honor and wait for the rest of the team to arrive. A couple of them have a drink, a few more talk about the deceased and a few others chat about the weather and the market. They are dressed simply in black trousers and white shirts adorned with the Funeral Honors Team patch and the American flag, over a black dickie. They wear a military style hat and black shoes. They sport mustaches, full beards, sideburns, long hair (trimmed or otherwise), mostly contrary to the military standards into which they had enlisted years ago. This is a small town and they all know each other and the veteran who has left them.

The team, men and women, collectively represent the Veterans of Foreign Wars, American Legion, Sons of the American Legion, American Veterans and the Veterans of Foreign Wars Auxiliary. They represent several American conflicts from WWII to Korea to Vietnam to Desert Storm, Iraqi Freedom, and beyond. They also represent The United States Air Force, Army, Marine Corps, Missouri National Guard, and the Navy, veteran, active, reserve or retired. All of them can probably claim family members who had served in past wars and conflicts dating back to the American Revolution; military life seems to be genetic. Their tours of duty spread across the globe in places most civilians do not want to visit or have never heard about. While on duty they met people who hated or loved them because of their skin color, language, religion, national origin and other reasons people use to justify hate or love. The team's military jobs ran the array of “needs of the service” from combat duty to dental technician, from supply clerk to gunner, from cook to medic, officer, enlisted, and so on. They remember their time in uniform with pride while respecting and honoring each other’s experiences. They each earned an Honorable Discharge.

The honorable service of deceased veterans from all services and conflicts is also given respect, but now it's time to go. The small convoy of civilian cars and vans with military pride decals on the windows depart the VFW hall enroute to the cemetery. The ceremonial place is obvious; it is marked with a green turf tarp over fresh dug dirt with an awning erected over it. The old veterans pull up into the cemetery and get out. They take one of the two ceremonial rifles, seven firing rifles, an American flag, an Army Service flag and the American Legion flag out of the trunk of one car. The Bugler gets out with his bugle and steps over to the small crowd hanging together next to the funeral awning out of the cold wind. With smiles, they shake hands with the active duty personnel in dress blues who arrive as a part of their duty to this ceremony. They chat awhile and wait for word from the funeral director by cell phone.

The detail leader of the Funeral Honors Team tells them where to line up. They form a casual line in preparation for the event and wait for the mourners who are just now leaving the funeral home. ETA is 15 minutes. The leader says to start falling in and gives the order, “Dress Right, Dress.” They form a single line evenly spaced, side by side, the Rifle Team is at the ready, safeties on for now. Flags are unfurled and the bugle is ready for that last, single, most mournful tune. The leader commands masterfully, “ATTENTION!”, “Parade Rest.” They perform the moves learned and well mastered years before. The cortege has left and is now slowly, mournfully enroute. The show begins. To explain, I say “show” here, not as a piece of entertainment but as a visual statement of loyalty, historical continuity, and cohesiveness. It shows others that this is serious. It shows them we never forget. By the rendering of final honors and rites it goes into the memory and full hearts of all mourners. Those veterans yet living see that they will also be honored accordingly.

The mourners arrive with the hearse leading the way, the family car immediately behind, followed by the rest of the family and friends. They flow in, maybe twenty to thirty cars, get out, walk to the awning with the Army flag flapping in the cool wind. They look a bit underdressed for the weather. Maybe they can use the air as an excuse for the moist eyes. The funeral director directs the crowd for the grave side service. As the pallbearers remove the flag­draped casket, the command is given: “PRESENT ARMS!” The honors team “snaps to” and renders the salute of ancient honor. When the deceased is at the open grave a quieter command is given, “Parade Rest!” The team set the rifles at their side and stands at rest. The preacher then says a few words of eternity and comfort amidst a few sniffles and cleared throats.

The detail leader sends a silent signal to the honors team. Their hearts now beat a little stronger and faster. Rifle safeties are off.

“ATTENTION!”

“PRESENT ARMS!”

            “READY, AIM, FIRE!”

            “READY, AIM, FIRE!”

            “READY, AIM, FIRE!”

            “PRESENT ARMS!”

Twenty one blank rounds explode from the barrels in the silence of the cemetery, seven rifles, three rounds each. Live rounds are only for combat and marksmanship.

The bugle, an ancient instrument, has been used for many military calls to call members out of bed, to chow, to assemble, lights out, prepare to fight, attack, retreat, and other reasons during its history. Today it is called upon one more time in a small town cemetery to perform “Butterfield's Lullaby” named for the Major General who wrote it in 1862: “Taps.” The first line is, “Day is Done.” All stand at attention and the bugle tune makes that sound. It makes tears fall and our skin crawl. It brings faces and memories back to mind. They think of their past comrades, places they've been and all stand in respectful awe. Some remember the newly deceased. The mourners stand and face the music while a few more tears are wiped. Children have questions, but the answers come later.

“Order Arms!” The rifles are brought back to their sides. The sight and sound is now in all hearts and minds. The flag is ceremonially removed and hovered above the casket and enfolded to a formal triangle with well rehearsed hands, then presented to the next of kin with,

“. . .on behalf of a grateful nation.” Condolences are offered, more tears.

Another silent signal and the team is released with, “Dismissed.” They recover the brass cartridges from the grass that ejected only moments before with each volley and given to the next of kin. The old veterans return to the cars, load the weapons and flags, then depart, another funeral done, another fellow veteran honored and remembered.

Upon arrival at the VFW/American Legion Hall a bit of housekeeping occurs and they go to their cantina for a couple rounds of cheer. Words of remembrance are again spoken among them, privately this time, then a special liquor is pulled out from a hiding place. The pouring, the toast, the solemn salute then glasses are downed. No one speaks of future funerals. Funerals will happen in time but the team is a bit superstitious. When someone talks about funerals another funeral is soon to happen, another veteran might die. They talk about other things and go home. The sacred obligation is done. One day it will be their turn; until then honorable, hard–working, unsung life goes on, but we remember.