HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY
- Thread starter Waldo
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Happy Memorial Day Everyone! Remember all of our soldier's, past and present!
AlFulchino
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ditto, and a prayer that our Commander in Chief has an ephinany
rrawhide
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Thanx Waldo for starting this thread.
Being a veteran, it is always nice to be remembered but more importantly, remember those who have gone before us. We all owe so much to them.
Happy Memorial Day folks.
Have a safe one!!!
rrawhide
Being a veteran, it is always nice to be remembered but more importantly, remember those who have gone before us. We all owe so much to them.
Happy Memorial Day folks.
Have a safe one!!!
rrawhide
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Dean
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Although we celebrate our version of Memorial Day on November 11 in Canada, I thought this might be appropriate here for your Memorial Day:
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
AlFulchino
Winemaker of 30+ years
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my cousin's husband wrote this today...
<h2>Memorial Day: A Tribute To Veterans,
EvenHere</span></font></h2>
By Paul Hemphill</span></font>
< ="text/" ="http://s0.wp.com/wp-content/plugins/adverts/adsense.js?m=1253160243g&1">
Two to three times a week I would witness the aftermath of a
massacre.</span></font>
In what was
commonly known as a “fire-fight,” helicopters would rush in to bring back the
dead and wounded from a most recent battle. Those pilots were God’s better
angels.</span></font>
I could
hear the horrible screaming before Ientered the fieldhospital. Young men – my
age – just had their legs blown off, or they lost an arm, a hand,or an eye, and
choppers were still coming in like a tsunami wave. There were times I didn’t
want to assist my chaplaininthatawfulplacein Cu Chi,
Vietnam.</span></font>
Once
inside,I could see a nursewalking up and down a row of the wounded, saying
only two words, “Yes,”or “No.” YES meant the soldier was worth saving; NO meant
that the young soldier was beyond repair, that the young “meatball” surgeons
shouldn’t waste their time. My God! It had come to this: life-and-death
decisions were being made on the spot.</span></font>
Blood was
everywhere. You couldn’t step around it because you were already in it. I had to
rush out the door and vomit until I felt there was nothing left in me. But I
knew my body parts were still intact, that for some inexplicable reason, I was
supposedto thank God for being so lucky. That somehow I was spared, but why?
“Why?” is the existential question for which a lifetime of searching for the
answer is futile, at least not one that ever satisfies.</span></font>
For us who
returned from battle, there was the unexplainable burden of what is
called”survivor’s guilt.” It took me 15 years to actually open up to my own
wife who had the mostloving respect for all my years of
silence.</span></font>
I don’t
speak for me, but for those Vietnam veterans who can’t or won’t place their
thoughts in full view. I thought these few words would at least give the reader
a sense of who we vets are, not to feel sorry for us, but to understand that
what we did meant something, that it was worth doing, and that we have few or no
regrets. And that most importantly, we don’t feel the country owes us anything.
Instead, and in concert with our forefathers, we still owe our country our
lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.</span></font>
Lincoln
said it best at Gettysburg when he was delivering his most famous words over the
fresh grave of one of my ancestors, David Hemphill: “…the brave men living and
dead who struggled here have consecrated [this ground] far above our poor power
to add or detract.”</span></font>
Aftermy
return home, and being with my mother for the first time inthirteen months, she
took me to the window of the living room. Inwhatcould have beena scene right
out of Saving Private Ryan</font>,
my motherthrusted me into the mosttearful moment of my life: she revealed that
every day while I was gone- every damn day – she would look out that window to
see if a car with military markings wasapproaching with news she was expecting
to hear about “your brave son.”</span></font>
I don’t
know how brave we were; my fellow veterans and I don’t think about it. What we
want – all we ever wanted – is to live according to a self-imposed requirement
of keeping our lives simple and peaceful, enriched with that Jeffersonianwish
to be left alone.With perhaps a little more commitment than
most.</span></font>
<h2>Memorial Day: A Tribute To Veterans,
EvenHere</span></font></h2>
By Paul Hemphill</span></font>
< ="text/" ="http://s0.wp.com/wp-content/plugins/adverts/adsense.js?m=1253160243g&1">
Two to three times a week I would witness the aftermath of a
massacre.</span></font>
In what was
commonly known as a “fire-fight,” helicopters would rush in to bring back the
dead and wounded from a most recent battle. Those pilots were God’s better
angels.</span></font>
I could
hear the horrible screaming before Ientered the fieldhospital. Young men – my
age – just had their legs blown off, or they lost an arm, a hand,or an eye, and
choppers were still coming in like a tsunami wave. There were times I didn’t
want to assist my chaplaininthatawfulplacein Cu Chi,
Vietnam.</span></font>
Once
inside,I could see a nursewalking up and down a row of the wounded, saying
only two words, “Yes,”or “No.” YES meant the soldier was worth saving; NO meant
that the young soldier was beyond repair, that the young “meatball” surgeons
shouldn’t waste their time. My God! It had come to this: life-and-death
decisions were being made on the spot.</span></font>
Blood was
everywhere. You couldn’t step around it because you were already in it. I had to
rush out the door and vomit until I felt there was nothing left in me. But I
knew my body parts were still intact, that for some inexplicable reason, I was
supposedto thank God for being so lucky. That somehow I was spared, but why?
“Why?” is the existential question for which a lifetime of searching for the
answer is futile, at least not one that ever satisfies.</span></font>
For us who
returned from battle, there was the unexplainable burden of what is
called”survivor’s guilt.” It took me 15 years to actually open up to my own
wife who had the mostloving respect for all my years of
silence.</span></font>
I don’t
speak for me, but for those Vietnam veterans who can’t or won’t place their
thoughts in full view. I thought these few words would at least give the reader
a sense of who we vets are, not to feel sorry for us, but to understand that
what we did meant something, that it was worth doing, and that we have few or no
regrets. And that most importantly, we don’t feel the country owes us anything.
Instead, and in concert with our forefathers, we still owe our country our
lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.</span></font>
Lincoln
said it best at Gettysburg when he was delivering his most famous words over the
fresh grave of one of my ancestors, David Hemphill: “…the brave men living and
dead who struggled here have consecrated [this ground] far above our poor power
to add or detract.”</span></font>
Aftermy
return home, and being with my mother for the first time inthirteen months, she
took me to the window of the living room. Inwhatcould have beena scene right
out of Saving Private Ryan</font>,
my motherthrusted me into the mosttearful moment of my life: she revealed that
every day while I was gone- every damn day – she would look out that window to
see if a car with military markings wasapproaching with news she was expecting
to hear about “your brave son.”</span></font>
I don’t
know how brave we were; my fellow veterans and I don’t think about it. What we
want – all we ever wanted – is to live according to a self-imposed requirement
of keeping our lives simple and peaceful, enriched with that Jeffersonianwish
to be left alone.With perhaps a little more commitment than
most.</span></font>
