How many times has each of us uttered the phrase, “It’s not my job; let someone else do it”?  Upon closer inspection, this is more than an expression.  It is a mindset in which we assume that everything can be fixed, provided someone else takes up the slack.  At the end of World War II, the phrase, “Do It Yourself” was coined, thereby creating a whole new industry.  People who normally paid others to repair things purchased tools and how-to books in order to save the costs once associated with the labor of professionals.

The “Do It Yourself” craze eclipsed small projects and took on larger ones, such as additions to houses.  Some money was saved, but some was also expended because there were certain jobs that could only be managed by well-trained tradesmen such as electricians, plumbers, and carpenters. For the even tougher jobs, lawyers and doctors were called upon and paid for their services.

The point of all of this is that general public will take a stab at the easy jobs, but we take for granted that someone else will tackle the harder jobs, for a price.  And now we arrive at the crux of this article: our volunteer military forces.

How many Americans wake up in the morning and ponder the state and fate of our military?  Isn’t it more a matter of, “I wonder which team won last night” or “I think I need an oil change” or “What’s for breakfast?”.  Although we are well aware that our armed forces are putting themselves in harm’s way in the world’s hot spots, we choose to push them to the back of our minds, because such thoughts may spoil our day.

In the past, America has had a regular Army and Navy comprised of volunteers.  However, during World War II, the number of volunteers was insufficient, thereby compelling our government to institute the draft.  The draft mandated that all able-bodied men between the ages of 18 and 45 register for military service.

Over the years, our volunteer military has grown to encompass professional soldiers, supported by the National Guard and bolstered by weaponry of an increasingly technologically advanced nature.  This combination has produced the best fighting force in the world.

Down through the ages, America has always depended upon the citizen soldier.  During the Revolutionary War, it was the Minutemen who dropped their plows and picked up their guns to defend our emerging nation. In World War I, it was the American Doughboy who went “Over There” and promised not to come back “’til it’s over.”  In World War II and Korea, it was the GI’s who broke the back of the Axis powers and saved the world from tyranny.

Vietnam was a different type of conflict.  In this war, the only men who were not drafted were Conscientious Objectors, some of whom fled the U.S.  Many young men enrolled in college to receive a deferment from the draft.  Those who did not serve received amnesty when the war came to an end.  On that day, it should be noted, the number of male students attending college dropped dramatically.

Aside from our everyday problems, including healthcare, illegal immigration, economic woes, the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the flooding in Tennessee, and the government takeover of the private sector, we confront growing problems in our military.  Multiple tours of duty, the rules of war changing in favor of the enemy, and the court marshalling of Navy Seals for brutalizing the enemy number among these issues.  I wonder what General George Patton would have said about these newfound constraints upon our military?

During World War II, nearly every family in this country had one or more of their loved one in the armed services.  The entire nation supported those armed services.  Prayers and positive thoughts were offered up for them, and our infantry, airmen, and sailors were not taken for granted; rather, they were revered.  The final cost of that war was that 400,000 men were killed in action and 78,000 went missing or were wounded.

When it comes to the tough job of defending our way of life, the American public has taken our military for granted.  By and large, we no longer consider the fact that there by the grace of God and our volunteer military go our sons and daughters — who may have been drafted into service if not for those who enter the military voluntarily. Given the carefree lifestyle we live, it is very easy to take certain things for granted in America. But it was not always so easy. People sacrificed and died protecting our freedoms and our very way of life.

To the rest of the world, America is the Promised Land: a land of the free with opportunities to enjoy a better life.  As citizens, we have to stop taking things for granted and follow in the footsteps of the people who made this country great.

It’s time for every American to accept the responsibility of keeping America free and strong for our troops.  When those troops return home to the land of the brave, from their monumental tasks overseas, we should welcome them and express gratitude for their sacrifices. To paraphrase the immortal words of President John F. Kennedy, our voluntary troops honor the concept of asking not of what your country can do for you, but asking what you can do for your country.  Our troops go far beyond the asking.  They are valiant enough to actually do something to protect our freedoms. 

In the days of the majestic tall ships, when Britannia ruled the waves, a mysterious set of circumstances occurred that would forever change, and indeed enhance, the color of the English language.  Several English merchant ships bound for the Colonies with supplies never reached their port of call.  The Bermuda Triangle lay hundreds of miles south of the ships’ courses, so it was not a matter of an inexplicable vortex sucking the ships beneath the waves.  And yet, they vanished mysteriously.  Their disappearance was of great concern to several parties, including insurance companies such as Lloyds of London, which had to pay out premiums against the lost cargo.  Teams were established and investigations were launched to determine the cause of the disappearance and hopefully, the whereabouts of the errant vessels.

The first thought was piracy, for theft upon the high seas was rather common in those days.  However, the investigators ruled out piracy.  Analysis of the ships’ manifests revealed that all of the missing craft bore the same cargo.  It was not gold, silver, precious gems or anything else that might tempt maritime looters.  It was fertilizer: manure needed for the cultivation of crops in America.

Further investigation proved that when fertilizer is moistened, it creates a chemical reaction that results in the generation of a toxic gas, called methane.  Thus, by simple deduction, the riddle was solved.  It was postulated that when the ships left port, the fertilizer was stowed in the holds, below decks.  During the voyage, water from the bilge seeped into the holds and slowly saturated the cargo. When sufficient methane gas built up in the cargo areas and the watchmen came to examine those areas on their rounds, the lamps they carried ignited the gas.  In the ensuing explosions, it was assumed that all the ships, and all hands aboard them, sank to their watery graves.

To solve this problem for future voyages, all fertilizer cargo had to be clearly labeled when stowing it aboard sailing vessels.  The labels read Ship High in Transit.  When reduced to an acronym, the caution spelled SHIT.  The farmers in the Colonies who received and made use of the product literally introduced the new word into their vocabulary and thus, into the American vernacular.

This word cannot be found in the present day Webster’s Dictionary, for a very simple reason and not the one that you may think.  It is not a holdover from a more Puritanical era, an effort to spare tender eyes from reading such a word.  The reason is that SHIT is not a word; it is an acronym.  The term does appear, however, as a translation in a foreign dictionary. The word stronzo in Italian (drop the last “o” for the proper pronunciation) translates in English as SHIT.  This is not to be confused with its synonym, merde (usage example: fedde merde, meaning, stinking SHIT), which the Italians borrowed from the French, who obviously knew a pile of horse manure when they saw, er, smelled it.

Since the birth of our nation, then, the term SHIT has been used both as a noun and in adjective form, the latter to emphasize certain untoward characteristics or conditions.  Although many a mother has sought to wash her child’s mouth out with soap when this word — heck, let’s call it a word — passed her child’s lips, it is endemic to the American language.  It bears and reflects a spirit that is uniquely American.  Down through the years, indeed the centuries, this word has infiltrated our tongue to the point where I feel that it should have an official place in the Webster’s Dictionary.

Like the ubiquitous “okay” (whose origin is African, by the way), SHIT transcends gender-related, age-related, cultural/ethnic, and religious differences.  For example, SHIT is one of the first words foreigners learn to say, as a sort of survival mechanism.  It comes in handy when they have yet to understand our money system and assume they are being bilked (“Don’t gimme none of that SHIT!”).  Folks hailing from the Deep South and The Hood pronounce it differently than do the rest of the country (“Sheee-it!”), but we all understand each other, nonetheless, for that is one of the beauties of the term; its meaning is readily comprehensible.  Moreover, the term is just about the one thing that both of our parties, Republican and Democrat, can agree upon as each one accuses the other of being full of SHIT.

“He fell in SHIT!” is used to denote a fortuitous happenstance.  “Woo, the SHIT hit the fan!” describes a less than optimum situation, equating to the cat being let out of the bag and/or all hell breaking loose.  And who among us above the age of 40 has trouble recalling that lovely and rather inane little ditty, The Name Game?, that never failed to tick our parents off?  In singing the song, one selects a proper name and makes it rhyme with other syllables.  Therefore, the name Kit was sung, “Kit, Kit, Bo Bit, Banana Fanna Fo Bit, Fee Fi, Mo’ SHIT, Kit!!”  In fact, I think the last bit of that lyric may have inspired at least one rap song, if not the stage name of an actual rapper or two (Mo’ SHIT and his brother, No SHIT).

The term even helped WWII GI’s face horrors beyond the battlefield; i.e., the mess hall.  The greatly shunned offering, Chipped Beef on Toast, was re-christened SHIT on a Shingle.  This SHIT can still be found in many eateries, particularly in Jersey diners.  In New York City and its five boroughs, however, it (and other things) is referred to as “SHIT on rye.”  If ever you are offered such a dish, my New York friends have advised me that it is de rigueur to inquire, “With seeds, or without?”

Now that you know the origin of the word, you are loaded for bear.  You can entertain people with this true tale of how SHIT came to be such a large part of our vernacular, indeed, our culture.  And, if push ever comes to shove, you can never be accused of knowing “Jack SHIT.”  Unless, of course, you never met the fellow! 

According to Webster’s dictionary, the word “pander” is defined thusly:

1.)  a:  A go-between in love intrigues;  b: A pimp

2.)  One that caters to or exploits the weakness of others

The definition of the word “pander” is eerily akin to the unofficial definition of “politician.”  Strange isn’t it?

Well, it’s been said that politics makes strange bedfellows.  Indeed it does.  Metaphorically and literally, players hop beds and trade votes to suit the conditions that benefit them.   Take a gander at some of the prominent politicians who have switched from the Republican Party to that of Democrat.  In the real world, these politicos would be called “whores” because like streetwalkers, they will sell that which they should value, to the highest bidder.   A prostitute does not respect her body.  A politician does not respect the trust placed in him by the constituents who voted him into office to represent their needs and concerns.

To further screw the constituents by making them think they’re actually in their corner, many elected leaders align themselves with different categories within their parties. Allegedly, these labels are meant to distinguish one politician from another.  The term “Conservative” is synonymous with old-school cowboys who like to engage in games of “Mine is bigger than yours and it’s more deadly” and “God (translation: I) say(s) you have to and so, you will!”  ”Liberal” usually refers to those, cough-cough, oh so kind-hearted souls willing to dole out taxpayers’ hard-earned money to those who haven’t earned it, including illegal immigrants, via all manner of social service programs that seem to breed like rabbits.  And “Moderate” denotes those who lack the intestinal fortitude to take a genuine stand.  Instead of leaning hard to the Right or the Left, they sit on the proverbial fence, tottering and awaiting a great big inevitable fall, like Humpty Dumpty.

The motto of the United States of America is “United we stand and divided we fall.”   Yet, the whole game of politics is based upon division, as in “divide and conquer” … the taxpayers, that is!  Every time a politician or political party panders to a special interest group, it’s for the sole purpose of feathering his or their own nest.  The more special interests groups that back a politician or a party, the more votes are cast for that particular politician or party.  And votes sway elections.  All a politician has to do is promise to make good what he’s told those special interest groups, and he’s in like Flynn.  He earns an hugely inflated salary, enjoys untold perks, and has all his benefits paid for the nephews and nieces of Uncle Sam:  me, you, and every other decent, honest taxpayer.

It is time for us to realize that we are a nation of Americans.  Whether we have been born here, or whether we immigrated here, we are all bound, as “one nation under God” to empower each other and move our nation forward.  This means that we all work together toward common goals (i.e., lower taxes, better representation in government, more plentiful jobs, manufacturing returned to the U.S.; you get the gist).  This does not mean that we hide behind our cultural/ethnic, sexual, or religious differences to demand certain favors and then appoint blood-sucking politicians all too eager to make those favors realities.  When the Allies liberated Paris, France from the Axis powers during World War II, the French hailed us as Americans, period.  Not as Italian-Americans, Chinese-Americans, Jewish-Americans, Polish-Americans, Gay Americans, Straight Americans, yadda, yadda, yadda.

What God brought forth upon this land was intended to serve as a blueprint for other nations worldwide.  This nation of immigrants was to stand as a beacon of hope, illustrating that regardless of superficial differences, we were meant to co-exist in peace and harmony and enjoy the gifts from God’s bounty.

Recently, I lost an old friend.  An e-mail from the daughter of my WWII Army buddy, Paul P. Bartels, informed me of his passing. After expressing my condolences to his family, I wondered what I might do to ease the pain of their loss.  Into my mind flowed the sagacious words of General Douglas MacArthur, in his address of April 19, 1951 to Congress on the occasion of his retirement from military life.  In summing up his career, the General stated proudly, “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.”

Thoughts of MacArthur took me back to August 10, 1945, when I boarded a troopship in San Francisco Harbor bound for the Carolina Islands.  My ship was part of a massive Allied armada bent on invading the nation that had bombed Pearl Harbor: Japan.   Due to Divine Intervention, which was spurred on, no doubt, by my mother’s fervent prayers, that invasion never took place.  After we bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered unconditionally on September 2, 1945.

When the war ended, I was no longer needed to serve as an infantryman.  Thus was I transferred to the 24th Signal Company on the Island of Mindanao in the Philippines.  I served my country as a member of a gigantic taskforce assigned to secure Japan and keep the peace following its surrender.  From Mindanao, my fellows and I shipped out again — this time, directly for Japan.

It was near the town of Matsuyama on the Japanese island of Shikoko that I first met Paul.  We were both assigned to the mess section of our Army camp.  Paul  drove the mess truck and I repaired, maintained, cussed at, and prayed over antiquated field stoves in order get the 24th’s meals out on time.

After a few months, the 24th Division was ordered to replace His Majesty’s Royal Cameron Highlanders, who were stationed at Okayama on the main island of Honshu. Mess Sergeant Werner Poppe selected our cook, Tony Prekosivich, our driver, Paul Bartels, and yours truly, who came to earn the moniker The Stove Man, to set up an advanced kitchen at Okayama.

In a two-and-a-half ton truck that also towed a small water carrier, we stowed all of our  necessary gear.  Over the island’s mountainous terrain, Paul maneuvered that truck like a pro, toward the ferry station on the inland sea at Takamatsu.  There, we boarded a ferry that would carry us to the town of Uno on the island of Honshu.  En route, the ferry captain invited us into the wheelhouse, where he cordially served us saki (rice wine).  That trip would create a fond memory for me in the years to follow.

Arriving at Uno, we motored to Okayama, where life unfolded in imitation of art.  Like a page out of a Rudyard Kipling novel, we were greeted by a band of welcoming, kilted Scotsmen.  Before their forces pulled out so that we could occupy the area, they put on a show for our division that featured the rousing Scottish dance, The Highland Fling.

We set up our mess hall at Okayama, near a barracks that housed officers.  Because it was summer, we noted with suspicion a wisp of smoke curling from the eave of the officers’ roof.  Rapidly, that wisp escalated into a raging inferno that caused a hasty evacuation by the officers.  One of our trucks was parked perilously close to the fire and had begun to smolder.  If the flames had reached the gas tank, it would have been a terrible, life-threatening disaster.  Without hesitation, Paul leaped into the smoldering truck and drove it out of harm’s way.  In all of the excitement, his act of heroism went unnoticed — but I will never forget it.

After a few months at Okayama, we were ordered to make our final move to the most southern island of Kyushu, near the town of Kokora.  Paul, yours truly, and the rest of the 24th Signal Company set up camp in the Kitagawa Racetrack area.  This would be our home until other troops would arrive to replace us.

During our occupation of Japan, we came in contact with the native people.  They could not speak English and we could not speak Japanese.  Our mode of communication was like a mad cross between Show and Tell and Charades, with the results often hilarious.  Paul and I often had a good laugh this way.

As the one-year anniversary of our landing at Matsuyama approached, rumors began to fly, hinting that we would be receiving our replacements. When the rumors proved true, it was a bittersweet departure.  We all shook hands, slapped each other on the back, and said farewell to our buddies, knowing full well that our paths would probably never cross again, at least, not in person.

After we returned to our respective hometowns and got on with our lives, we tried to keep in touch.  Annual Christmas cards, very much anticipated and cherished, contained letters of how our families were growing and what we had all been up to in the preceding twelve months.  But as years passed, that Christmas card list dwindled down to just three of us old soldiers.  With Paul’s passing, it is now just two of us: Pat Barbato and me.  Pat never fails to remind me that he wishes to be the oldest living World War II veteran, with me right behind him!

As I write this tribute to Paul and those days overseas, I hope I have enlightened his family as to how he served his country and enriched the lives of the people he touched. I believe that when General MacArthur said that old soldiers never die, he should have finished the phrase with “as long as they still live in the hearts and minds of family, friends, and the nation they served.” 

I’ll bet I know what you’ll be doing this Fourth of July.  You’ll be at a barbecue, either in your back yard or that of a loved one or a friend.  You’ll be noshing on hot dogs and hamburgers, swilling down a cool brew or two.  You’ll tell a few jokes, laugh at others, and slurp some sweet, juicy watermelon. Finally, you’ll settle in as the sun sinks low to enjoy a dramatic fireworks display.  A moment before those bombs go “bursting in air,” I invite you to do something a bit different this Fourth.  I invite you to meditate upon the true meaning of the holiday and its place in all of our lives.

In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, on July 4, 1776, representatives from the thirteen original colonies gathered to sign the Declaration of Independence.  Based upon the conviction that all men are created equal and that those men — and women — must have a voice in how they are governed, the infant nation of America was formed.  Our Founding Fathers had taken a stand, and a gigantic leap of faith, in breaking away from England in order to enjoy the freedoms they’d deemed God-given, freedoms for which they, and many others, fought hard.

Since that first Independence Day, this country has seen many wars, too many.  But, we have also seen enormous achievements and great prosperity.  From sea to shining sea, our nation has been blessed by an abundance of resources and the most beautiful and diverse natural “architecture” the world over.  You create what you envision, and so, the concept of Manifest Destiny birthed wagon trains rumbling over our fruited plains, wagon trains laden with brave and hearty pioneers.  Headed into a great unknown, the pioneers were driven solely by their indomitable spirit and the desire to make better lives for themselves and their families. From the forests, the streams and lakes, and the plains, those pioneers carved outposts and farms that bloomed into towns, cities, and eventually, States.  Now fifty in number, each bright star on our flag symbolizes one of our States.  Together, those fifty States forged a large, strong, and proud nation.

History repeats itself, indeed.  We patterned our Constitution, indeed our nation, upon that of France, which had liberated herself from the tyranny of a government that cared not a whit for its people.  However, the emergence of our nation also mimicked that of another country, or rather, an empire.

The Roman Empire was the superpower of its day.   Rich in culture, art, and monetary means and bolstered by a strong army that conquered outlying lands, ancient Rome’s arms stretched deeply into Mesopotamia (the Middle East) and as far as what is now the United Kingdom.  An Emperor presided over this vast and mighty realm, much as our own President heads the U.S. today, and her government boasted a Senate: an official forum in which representatives from Rome’s various city-states determined how their government operated.  The government was Imperial in nature but built upon a Republic whose core principle was, “of the people, by the people, and for the people.”  This form of government set the standard for future governments the world over.  But despite all her glory, the Roman Empire only survived for approximately 300 years.

Scholars and historians attribute the fall of the Roman Empire to the social, economic, and military changes taking place within her.  Other contributing factors were the moral decay of her people as well as governmental officials whose attitude had become self-serving, downright cruel, and even psychotic (i.e. Nero and Caligula).  Does any of this ring a bell with you — as in the Liberty Bell?  Does it sound at all like the America in which we now live?  Our government has been in existence for 234 years.  Where are we headed in the next 66?

This Fourth of July, as you thrill to the fireballs bursting brilliantly in the sky, you may well consider how many more Fourths you, and your children, and your grandchildren, will spend in this manner, with something to celebrate, something uniquely American.  Consider whether or not you wish to revive the spirit of our Founding Fathers and the pioneers who followed them, driven by their independence, vision, and gumption.  Do you wish to take a stand in how our government is run, or are you content with the status quo?   Do you want this nation to continue, and to flourish, despite the tough times we have faced in recent years?  Or will you watch as we crumble into dust like the Roman Empire?

In contemplating a title for this article, I could very well have lifted a line from a beloved old Grateful Dead song, Truckin’.  “What a long, strange trip it’s been” surely describes my life.  For the most part, it’s been a good life.   For everything that I have put into it and everything that I have gotten out of it, my life seemed to be headed in a certain direction — until I reached my golden years.  That’s when it turned strange.

Growing up in South Philadelphia with my two brothers during the Great Depression, the life lessons learned in my youth held me in good stead as I matured, carving the path that my life has taken.  Hard work and honesty were the cornerstones of my family.  Like most traditional families of those times, my father was the breadwinner, and my mother was the heart and soul of our household.   My dad worked long hours in my grandfather’s barbershop while my mother did the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, and nearly every other household chore, including the most important one: the majority of the child-rearing.   My brothers and I pitched in to help whenever we could.  Back then, when the unemployment rate had skyrocketed to 25%, it took teamwork to get by as well as maintain our sanity.

We may not have been rich, but we were happy.  Simple, inexpensive outings, such as a trip down the river on the Wilson Line or hiking in the Wissahickon Park provided my family with downtime as well as quality time, in which we strengthened our bonds and celebrated being alive.  I remember those times with great fondness, as I do playing stickball and other games in the street along with the neighborhood kids.  Somebody’s mother or grandmother was always peering down upon us, making sure that we were safe and causing no major mischief.  If we were the cause of any trouble, may heaven have helped us as those watchful eyes would report back pronto to our parents, who then doled out appropriate punishments.

Back then, there was no such thing as a Time Out to curtail the behavior of unruly children.  There was no such thing as withholding television from us for our minor sins, because TV had yet to be invented!   There was no such thing as “reasoning” with us or facilitating the development of our “critical thinking skills” that would enable us to see the error of our ways.  In those days, parents had neither the time not the inclination for such approaches.  They were engaged in the very serious task of keeping the roof over their kids’ heads and food in their mouths.  The ideology behind “Spare the rod and spoil the child” was not a philosophy in my house; it was a way of life.   My brothers and I quickly learned that things could be a lot more pleasant if we followed our parents’ rules and mores, including respect for others.

As the years passed, my brothers and I were able to help the family in a monetary fashion.  After-school jobs, such as serving as delivery boys for local grocers, working newspaper routes, or clerking in stores allowed us to chip in a bit at home while still enjoying a little “blow money.”

At age the age of sixteen, we traded our short pants for long ones, for that was the mark of a boy coming of age.  Many of us came of age a lot faster than we’d bargained for, courtesy of World War II.   Two years after I’d begun to wear men’s clothing, I traded those clothes for a military uniform, at the command of the United States Army.

After the war, those lucky enough to return home attempted to recapture the years lost in the conflict by trying to meld back into civilian life.  But we were forever changed, as was the nation.  When the war ended, so did the jobs that supplied the war, mostly in manufacturing.  Because there were not enough jobs for the returning troops, many veterans took advantage of the G.I. Bill: a piece of legislation enabling vets to attain college educations or learn one of the trades by way of vocational schools.  With our newfound knowledge, we moved into decent-paying jobs, jobs that helped make our country the most economically sound nation in the world.

In the years to follow, we left our homes and the sheltering arms of our parents.  We began our own lives with the girls of our dreams.  Shortly afterward, we experienced the joys and responsibilities of raising our own families and understood, finally, our parents’ perspectives.   We worked, and we worked hard.  We put away for our retirement, to be able to enjoy our golden years with our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  Never did we expect to find ourselves in a situation tottering too close for comfort to the same one we’d experienced as kids growing up in the Great Depression.  At least, I didn’t.

Now that I am a senior citizen, I am floored, dismayed, and disheartened by what I see, and I feel that I speak for many people of my generation.  We served our country; we worked within the system and paid into the system.  We had assumed that our honest and industrious work ethic would bear fruit, for it is karmic law that what you give out, you receive back.  We did not expect to lose our shirts when the stock market crashed nearly two years ago. We did not anticipate that our government would blithely fork over $710 billion in aid – not to a needy working class, but to the elite: those who own and run huge mega-million dollar corporations.

These events have left senior citizens up the creek without a paddle.  On fixed incomes, we must juggle the costs of necessities against the ever-rising cost of living.  In addition to food, shelter (including the utilities and appliances and everything else within those shelters), and of course, clothing, we must – by law – carry insurance on our cars and perhaps in the near future, our health.

Over and over, my mind spins with questions of how my dad managed just the basics on the salary he earned.  We owned no car.  Our home was not air conditioned, nor did it boast a hot water heater, a dryer, a dishwasher, or other modern-day amenities.  And yet, we still enjoyed life to the fullest.  As President George H.W. Bush recalled the era he lived in, “Life was simpler and kinder then.”  Where did we go wrong?  Is overindulgence the “reward” we must now reap?

If only we seniors could return to those carefree days of childhood.  Until someone constructs a time machine, that’s not going to happen.  For now, here is another hard to believe fact that seniors must swallow.  Although the estate tax for 2010 is zero, it will climb to 55% in 2011!  If you are interested in cashing in on some savings, please refer to my article on this site entitled, Single Shot 45.

I suppose the plight of the Over the Hill Gang can best be summed up in a song.  We’re not talking about the Grateful Dead anymore; we’re talking about an artist of my generation.  We’re talking about Frank Sinatra’s, The September of My Years:

One day you turn around and it’s summer.

The next day you turn around and it’s fall.

And all the springs and winters of a lifetime

Whatever happened to them all?

Adopted by individual voters and political groups alike, the term “shovel ready” graphically illustrates our national chomping at the bit to get off the unemployment line and start earning decent wages again.  Widely used during our most recent primary elections, the phrase actually was coined during our previous Great Depression, under FDR’s administration. 

After the collapse of Wall Street, in 1932, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt created the National Rcovery Act to resurrect employment.  Considered un-Constitutional, one year later, the act was renamed The New Deal and included the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp) and the WPA (Works Project Administration).  Established to produce jobs and put money back into taxpayer’ pockets, both entities were formed to repair the nation’s physical infrastructure: roads, bridges, parks, and highways.

The CCC was a para-military organization designed to take young men off the street and keep them out of trouble by employing them for projects such as Virginia’s Skyline Drive.  As in the Army, the workers lived in barracks and were fed three meals a day.  The WPA provided employment for older, married men via labor for governmental projects.  When the media inquired as to their exact duties, workers were quoted as saying, “I lean on a shovel.”  In other words, these jobs did little or nothing to resolve the unemployment crisis.  And if rampant unemployment wasn’t a big enough cross to bear, Mother Nature added to our national misery with droughts and dust storms.

Perceiving the Great Depression as Biblical peoples must have viewed the plagues, some Americans deemed our fate “the wrath of God.”  They’d assumed that we were reaping Divine retribution for the indulgences of the Roaring Twenty’s.

Nearly seventy years later, President Obama atempted to tear a page out of FDR’s book with his economic stimulus plan.   He also sent up a hue and cry for “shovel ready jobs.”  Our fearless leader was referring to jobs in which workers could be employed immediately, as opposed to being assigned to projects that are bogged down in planning, design, or legal red tape.

As well-intentioned as Mr. Obama may be, there remain some glaring differences between the Great Depression of the 1930’s and the Great Recession (Depression?) of 2008.   When Wall Street crumbled in 1929, the government did not — unlike Mr. Obama’s adminstration — bail out the financial institutions to the tune of $710 billion.  In fact, the governnment gave these institutions not one red cent.

In the 1930’s, there were also more shovel ready jobs — a lot more.  A road gang could easily have consisted of 300 or more workers, simply because technology was not as advanced as it is today.  Nowadays, it takes a virtual skeleton crew using state-of-the-art machinery to produce quality roadways more quickly and cheaply.  As automation continues to replace human labor, what are our children’s and grandchildren’s places in the American workforce?  Will our descendents compete with machines and slave labor in a global society?  We need answers to these questions before this or the next administration crafts another stimulus program.

Parents should seriously consider the best investments in their children’s education.  Should tuition money be paid to colleges and universities, or should it be paid to vocational schools?  Our current government seems willing to make our children common laborers by way of shovel ready jobs. I suppose this strategy is more expedient than creating jobs that require real skill and intelligence, jobs that can make them self-sufficient and in turn, restore America to a state of prosperity.

A common laborer does not require a college education.  All he or she needs is a strong back and some muscle.  In pondering this, let us not forget the wise motto of the United Negro College Fund, which can and should be applied to citizens of all races:  “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” 

The Constitution of the United States of America was composed after much consideration and strife with our mother country, England.   It was written to elucidate and safeguard the truths our founding fathers deemed self-evident; these were the rights granted to every man, woman, and child by the grace of God. In creating the Constitution, James Madison, Ben Franklin, and their worthy colleagues sought to craft a document that would stand the passage of time.

Although the document emphasized centralization (federalization) of our new government, it included provisions to safeguard the rights of the individual States and for the separation of Church and State: a condition that guaranteed American citizens the right to practice their religion without fear of persecution.  This freedom distinguished our nation from others and became a beacon of hope to those experiencing religious oppression in their own countries.

From the moment of our nation’s birth, George Washington and every successive leader has made reference to God in governing and protecting our land.  Religious symbols and terminology were always invoked in swearing parties into public office and demanding that witnesses speak the truth in courts of law.  Every denomination of our currency carries the words, “In God We Trust.”   These things echoed the underlying tenets of the Constitution:  that every citizen and lawmaker is held to a higher authority.

The Constitution was designed to be shaped, interpreted, and modified to protect our citizens against threats both within and without our borders.  Yet, our Founding Fathers could not have foreseen the magnitude of change we have experienced as a nation evolving over more than two hundred years.  Now, interpretation of the Constitution is left to the best or perhaps the most powerful (i.e., moneyed) legal minds in the nation, also known as the Supreme Court.  Their decisions are final.  The phrase “Who died and made you God?” is particularly apt, for God has ceased being the Higher Authority in this nation.  Indeed, He has ceased to be, because right or wrong, We the People have to live with the decisions handed down by the Supreme Court. 

Did our Founding Fathers gaze into a crystal ball when crafting the Constitution?  Could they have envisioned the issue of abortion when they sought to separate Church from State?  Did they prophesize the tug of war fought to display/not display religious symbols on public property?  Or, did they mean to simply guarantee religious freedom to our citizens?  You do not have to be a Supreme Court Judge to answer these questions.

In defending our country from its enemies, we find God being written out of our history. Although engraved onto the World War II National Memorial, President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Pearl Harbor Day speech has been politically corrected.  Many current references to this speech eliminate FDR’s heartfelt words, “So help us God.”

Christ has been removed from Christmas, for Christmas has been amended to The Holiday Season, Happy Holidays, or Winter Break.  Religious symbols are verboten in governmental structures; prayer was banned in public schools in the early 1960’s.  All of this was done under the guise of separating Church from State.  So, how does religious freedom fit in a Godless country that still professes to be the greatest democracy in the world?

The Bible states that God set forth a set of laws by which man was compelled to live.  The Ten Commandments were handed down to Moses on two stone tablets.  Containing not a single amendment, they serve as the basis of our own laws (“Thou shalt not steal,” “Thou shalt not kill,” “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor,” etc.).  Whereas our legal system is convoluted and often confusing, God managed to cover all the bases with but Ten Commandments.  I guess that’s why we call Him God!

Do you want to continue to write God out of our history and ensure that he is omitted for future generations?  If not, contact your Congressman or Congresswoman to demand that God is re-instituted.  While you’re at it, say a prayer.  Ask God’s help to give our leaders the wisdom they need to lead us properly through a society that worships The Almighty Dollar instead of a truly Higher Authority. 

Given the doom and gloom press with which we are constantly bombarded, we often struggle to grasp positive news.  For the next few minutes, you can forget what’s burning on your browser’s home page and the screaming headlines in the newspapers.   Instead, settle in to read something uplifting: the story of a beloved Big Easy musician who, like many of us, tussled with life’s adversities before he triumphed above them.  That musician was Louis (pronounced “Louie”) Daniel Armstrong, whom the world knew by his nickname, “Satchmo.”

On August 4, 1901 in New Orleans’ red light district known as Storyville, Louis was born to William Armstrong and Mary Albert, better known as Maryanne.  As the grandson of slaves and the child of an impoverished couple, the boy’s life seemed destined to play out in want and obscurity.  His father abandoned the family while Louis was an infant.  Trying to make ends meet, Maryanne juggled cleaning houses, which didn’t pay very well, with walking the streets at night, which paid a bit better but left her children alone at night.

Unable to care for little Louis and his sister, Beatrice Armstrong Collins, Maryanne sent the little ones to live with Louis’ paternal grandmother, Josephine Armstrong.  Without a father figure, the boy spent his youth in a rough, New Orleans neighborhood known as the “Back of Town.”  At the age of five, Louis moved back with his mother and her relatives.   For years, the only time he saw his father was when the man marched in local parades.

Louis’ first introduction to Creole music came by way of the Fisk School for Boys, where he was a student — but only briefly.   Constrained to help support his family, the boy delivered newspapers and did whatever else he could.  Well intended as these efforts were, they were not enough to keep his mother from a life of prostitution.  With no parental supervision, Louis hung out in neighborhood dance halls, listening to bands at Pete LaLa’s club.  The performers included Joe “King” Oliver, who would come to figure prominently in his life, as well as other famous Big Easy musicians.

Whether by fate or providence, at the age of seven, young Louis landed a job with a Lithuanian Jewish immigrant family, the Karnofskys, who owned a junk hauling business.  Moved by the plight of the fatherless boy, the Karnofskys took him in and nurtured him as if he were their blood.  This generosity would become the turning point in Louis’ life.

Living with his new family, he witnessed the anti-Semitism that they suffered at the hands of their neighbors.  Later, this experience would inspire Louis to author, Louis Armstrong + the Jewish Family in New Orleans: The Year 1907.  That book told of his learning “how to live — real life and determination.”  Because of his loving relationship with the Karnofskys, the future Satchmo wore the Star of David for the rest of his life.  He also learned to speak fluent Yiddish, a skill that would serve him well when he made his way, in later years, to Hollywood.

It was the Karnofskys who gave a real kick-start Louis’ career.  While making deliveries one day, Louis remarked to Mr. Karnofsky’s son that he longed to have a cornet he saw in a store window, an instrument that he could not possibly afford.   Mr. Karnofsky overheard this, and overheard it every time he and the boys passed that store.  One day, the man purchased the cornet for young Louis, who was thrilled and who promised to pay the man back with hard work.  Today, The Karnofsky Project, a non-profit organization (http://www.karnofsky.org/), donates used musical instruments to children who cannot otherwise afford a musical education.

Before the Karnofskys’ intervention, Louis was still hanging out on the streets with the wrong crowd.   Inevitably, he quit school.  Eager for pocket money, he joined a quartet of boys that busked for coins of New Orleans.  A cornet player named Bunk Johnson saw something in the kid, and taught him to play the instrument by ear.  Johnson then got him his first gig, playing at Dago Tony’s Tonk in New Orleans.  Looking back upon his youth, Louis said of his worst times, “Every time I closed my eyes, blowing that instrument, it has given me something to live for.”

Living on the streets, he had a few run-ins with the law.  The worst and the best of them came when he was 11.  On New Year’s Eve, Louis, who had never used a gun before, borrowed one from a friend.  At midnight, he shot it into the air, as was customary in the Big Easy to usher in a new year.  Despite custom, the boy had ticked off the authorities one time too many.  He was arrested and placed in the New Orleans Home for Colored Waifs.

There, under the under the direction of the home’s administrator, Captain Joseph Jones, Louis gained self-discipline as well as some musical training.  Under the tutelage of Professor Peter Davis, he became the leader of the Home Band that played around New Orleans.  By the time he’d turned thirteen, he had begun to attract attention as a cornet player. A year later, he was released from the home to live with his father and new stepmother, but that did not last long; he was then bounced back to his mother.  Finally, he returned to the streets.

Eventually, Louis landed a steady gig.  In the evenings, he played coronet at Henry Ponce’s dancehall; by day, he hauled coal.  But his heart was always in the music.  He continued to march and play in the parades that have marked New Orleans’ rich history.  Whenever he found a spare moment, Louis enjoyed the live music of Bunk Johnson, Buddy Petit, Kid Ory, and Joe King Oliver, all of whom had a hand in helping him become a polished musician.

The skills he learned would later earn him entrance into the Fate Marable band, a group that toured on steamboats up and down the Mississippi River.  Of this experience, Louis had said, he said, “It’s like going to the university,” because for the first time, he learned to work with written arrangements.

While not quite seventeen, in the year 1918, Louis married Daisy Parker.  The couple adopted a mentally disabled boy, Clarence, who was actually Louis’ second cousin; the boy’s mother had died in childbirth.  Although the marriage was short lived, Louis would spend the rest of his life caring for Clarence.

In 1919, Louis joined Kid Ory’s band, the hottest jazz ensemble in New Orleans.  Louis replaced horn player Joe Oliver, who’d decided to move to Chicago.

When Louis was twenty, his musical prowess was becoming evident. In addition to reading music, he was good enough to solo on the trumpet.  He was the first jazzman to inject his own personality into the instrument, creating and interspersing skatzing with his playing and singing.  Skatzing or scat singing is a style in which Louis spliced non-sequitor into the lyrics and used his voice to imitate instruments.  His later recording of Heebie Jeebies, featuring scatzing, revolutionized jazz and brought this hot-cool new sound to the world.  It influenced musicians, songwriters, and singers for decades to follow.  A handful of these were Cab Calloway, Ella Fitzgerald, Van Morrison, Bono, and Taylor Hicks.

In 1922, Louis’ old mentor, Joe Oliver, extended his hand, asking Satchmo to come to Chicago to play with his Creole Jazz Band.  The Windy City had become the jazz capital of the world, a particularly auspicious occurrence as the booming economy enabled people to spend money freely on entertainment.  With the Creole Jazz Band the most popular in Chicago, Louis Armstrong’s pay was good.  For the first time in his life, he had his own apartment with a private bath and did not have to supplement his income with another job.

The following year, as the second cornet player in Oliver’s band, he was recognized as a phenomenon in his field.  He won challengers that included blowing two hundred High C’s in a row!  A good friend, Bix Beiderbecke, whose musical career mirrored that of Armstrong, introduced him to Hoagy Carmichael.  In the years to follow, this introduction would lead to collaborations with Carmichael.  If you are interested in learning more about Bix, the film, Young Man with a Horn, starring Kirk Douglas, will enlighten you.

About the time that Louis met Carmichael, he “jumped the broom” again and married pianist Lil Hardin, who played in the Creole Jazz Band.  Hardin would become a driving force in his life.  Although he was content to remain in Oliver’s band, Lil urged him to seek better billings and higher pay for his talent.  Louis obliged his wife.  In 1924, accepting an invitation to play with the top African American orchestra in New York City, he parted company with Oliver.

Under the direction of Fletcher Henderson, Louis switched his cornet for a trumpet in order to blend in with tenor sax soloist, Coleman Hawkins. The Henderson Orchestra played in the best venues, such as the Roseland Ballroom.  On occasion, Duke Ellington and his band would come to see Louis perform.  During this time, Armstrong cut many records with Clarence Williams, a pianist and an old friend from New Orleans.  The Williams Blues Five band included singers Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, and Alberta Hunter.

At his Lil’s urgings, Louis once more pulled up roots.  He left Fletcher Henderson and moved back to Chicago to play in his wife’s group, the Lil Hardin Armstrong Band. Billed as “The World’s Greatest Trumpet Player,” Louis began cutting platters under his own name for Okeh Records with his famous Hot Five and then, Hot Seven groups.  They produced hits such as Potato Head Blues, Muggles, and West End Blues: tunes that set jazz standards for many years.

Hot Five and Hot Seven included his old friend from The Big Easy, Kid Ory, on trombone, Johnny Dodds on clarinet, Johnny St. Cyr, who strummed the banjo, and Lil, who tickled the ivories.  Later, Earl “Fatha” Hines replaced Lil.  Of Louis’ band-leading skills, St. Cyr said, “One felt so relaxed working with him.  He made it a point to feature each individual musician in his arrangements.”  What St. Cyr meant was that Louis encouraged every musician to solo within a song, something that had not been done before in ensemble playing, and something that has since been copied by many a jazz man and woman.

Throughout the 1920’s, the records that Louis and his combos cut provided him with a broader audience for his evolving craft.  Heebie Jeebies was a smash, as was Weatherbird Duet with Earl “Fatha” Hines.  During the recording of Heebie Jeebies, the sheet music flew off its stand.  Instead of stopping the recording (renting a studio was costly), Louis improvised and thus gave birth to scatzing!

After separating from his wife Lil, Louis played with the Carroll Dickerson Orchestra at the Sunset Café.  Joe Glaser, an associate of the infamous Al Capone, managed this club. Eventually, the band, which featured Earl Hines, was renamed Louis Armstrong and His Stompers.  Hines and Armstrong would become fast friends.

After divorcing Lil, Louis took a third wife, Alpha Smith, who was rumored to have married him for his fame and all that went with it.  After a few years, that marriage also ended.

Louis returned to New York, where he played in a pit orchestra for the all-black revue, Hot Chocolate, written by Andy Razaf and Fats Waller.  He also made a cameo appearance in which he sang Ain’t Misbehaving’.  Louis stole the show, and the song became a hit.

The following year was climatic and devastating. 1930 marked the end of the Roaring Twenties and the collapse of Wall Street. In an economy gasping for breath, the entertainment industry floundered and many bands dissolved.  In spite of it all, Louis continued his vocal career with his interpretation of Hoagy Carmichael’s Stardust and Sydney Arozin and Carmichael’s Lazy River.  These two recordings, which feature skatzing, are collector’s items.

With the music industry shrinking, Louis moved to Los Angeles, where he was employed at the New Cotton Club.  The music attracted Bing Crosby and other Hollywood celebrities.  These connections led to Louis’ appearance, in 1931, in the film Ex-Flame.  A short while later, he returned to Chicago, only to be told by the mob to leave town.  He didn’t have to be told twice!  Louis returned to New Orleans to be welcomed by old friends.  He sponsored a local baseball team known as Armstrong’s Secret Nine, and had a cigar named after him.  Soon afterward, he began to tour the country, but was shadowed by the Mob.  He fled to Europe, where he toured to great success, and when things cooled down somewhat, he came back to the States.

Joe Glaser, Louis’ ex-manager, formed the Armstrong Big Band.  Upon Louis’ return to the U.S. however, Joe’s first task was to help the musician-singer straighten out his legal issues, Mob mess, and debts.  Louis had other troubles, however, with his fingers and lips — troubles brought on by his radical style of blowing the horns.  Forced to put down his instrument, he concentrated on his vocal prowess. Hollywood came knocking again in 1936, when he appeared in Pennies from Heaven, which starred Bing Crosby. In 1937, he replaced vaudeville crooner Rudy Vallee to become the first black person to host a national broadcast for CBS.

In 1942, after what seemed a lifetime on the road, he settled down in Queens, New York, where took a new bride, Lucille. It was during this period that he recorded Hoagy Carmichael’s Rockin’ Chair for Okeh Records.

In the years to follow, after playing more than three hundred gigs a year, changes in the industry made it difficult to maintain a sixteen-piece touring band.  Joe Glaser dissolved the Armstrong Big Band on August 13, 1947 and returned to the smaller format with the establishment of a six-piece group.  Called Louis Armstrong and his All Stars, the band headlined at Billy Berg’s Supper Club and featured Earl Hines, Jack Teagarden, and other top Swing and Dixieland musicians.  With the formation of this band, Louis made many records and appeared in more than thirty films.  On February 21, 1949, he became the first jazz musician to appear on the cover of Time magazine.

At the age of 63, in 1964, Louis recorded Hello Dolly, a chart-buster that dislodged the Beatles from their #1 Billboard spot.  Sponsored by the U.S. State Department, he also successfully toured Africa, Europe, and Asia, thus earning the nickname “Ambassador Satch”.

He came by his nicknames of Satchel Mouth and Satch because of his large jaw and mouth, which resembled, you guessed it, a satchel.  In 1932, in London, Percy Brooks, editor of Melody magazine, greeted him with, “Hello Satchmo”, and the new nickname stuck.  Louis was also known as “Dipper Mouth” and in later years, was called “Pops” by close friends and fellow musicians.

During the Civil Rights movement, Louis was unjustly labeled an Uncle Tom by segregationists as well as some younger musicians, including Miles Davis, because he sometimes played for segregated audiences.  The fact was, Louis was the first black jazz musician to play for white audiences, and the first to be embraced by international fans.  When the incident in Little Rock, Arkansas occurred in 1957, in which a black child was denied admission to a white school, Louis spoke up publicly against it, calling for the abolition of such practices.

He hated prejudice, but he loved food. While trying to maintain his weight, Louis produced songs such as Cheesecake, Cornet Chop Suey, and Struttin’ with Some Barbecue.  Of all the cuisines, he preferred that of New Orleans.  Regularly, he signed his letters, “Red beans and ricely yours.”

Amongst many of his best-loved hits were Stardust, Ain’t Misbehaving’, Dream a Little Dream of Me, You Rascal You, Stompin at the Savoy, When The Saints Go Marching In, and What a Wonderful World.  That last song was featured in the 1982 film, Good Morning Vietnam.  It starred Robin Williams as real-life DJ and U.S. Army Sergeant Adrian Cronauer, who injected some joy into servicemen’s lives with good music.  Widely diverse artists, including country music legend Roy Clark, iconic Hawaiian singer “Iz”, and punk-rock god Joey Ramone have covered What a Wonderful World.

When asked about his religion, Satchmo would say, “I was raised a Baptist, always wore the Star of David, and was friends with the Pope.”  Records indicate that he was baptized Catholic at the Sacred Heart of Jesus Church in New Orleans and wore the Star of David to honor the Karnofsky family.  Although he did not consider himself Catholic, he managed a coup that many Catholics ever have: he gained audiences with two Popes, Pius XII and Paul VI.

In addition to being an innovative musician, Louis was an extremely generous man who put everyone in his presence at ease with his infectious smile.

On July 6, 1971, God called Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong home.  His passing left a void in the world of music.  Amongst the celebrities who attended his funeral were Governor Rockefeller and Mayor Lindsay of New York, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, Guy Lombardo, Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Pearl Bailey, Count Basie, Harry James, Frank Sinatra, Ed Sullivan, Earl Wilson, Alan King, Johnny Carson, David Frost, Merv Griffin, Dick Cavett, and Buddy Hackett — all of whom served as honorary pallbearers.

At the service, Peggy Lee sang The Lord’s Prayer, Al Hibbler sang Nobody Knows the Troubles I’ve Seen, and long time friend Fred Robbins gave the eulogy.  Satchmo was interred in Flushing Cemetery in Queens, New York.

The Biblical quote, “Spread your bread upon the waters and it will return one thousand fold,” tells the story of the life of this amazing man.  Satchmo touched millions of fans worldwide and influenced generations of musicians.  Although he was childless, his legacy lives on through his gifts that keep on giving.  I hope that when Satchmo arrived at the Pearly Gates, St. Peter and a band of angels greeted him with a rousing rendition of When The Saints Go Marching In. 

In 2005, in Mulvane, Kansas, a group of concerned citizens gathered at American Legion Post 136.  The assembly was outraged because protesters had disgraced the funeral of an American soldier by members of the Westboro Baptist Church.  Those protesting were extremely vocal and disrespectful in stating that the deaths of our service men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan constitute Divine retribution for our military’s tolerance of homosexuality.  In response, the people gathered at the post formed The PGR (Patriot Guard Riders: http://www.pgrny.org/), whose mission statement is simple:

• Ensure respect for our fallen heroes and their families
• Shield mourning families and friends from interruptions by protestors
• Accomplish these objectives through non-violent means

Upon invitation from the family of a fallen comrade, the PGR forms a wall of motorcyclists carrying large American flags.  The flags obscure the protestors so that the mourners can lay the fallen soldier to rest in a manner befitting one who gave his or her life for our country.

Although motorcyclists founded the PGR, the organization is diverse; it is open to anyone, regardless of political affiliation or veteran status.  The only proviso is that all members of the PGR respect those who have served our country in the armed forces, and extend the same respect to law enforcement officers and firefighters.

After their first ride in July of 2005, in which 20 bikers honored SPC Meyers of St. Joseph, Missouri, the PGR extended an invitation to all veteran organizations to accompany them on their mission.   Thus, the PGR expanded nationwide, with each State assigned to carry out the mission. The organization’s growth was phenomenal.  Within weeks of that initial ride, members of the VFW, the American Legion, Rolling Thunder, ABATE, Combat Vets, Intruder Alert, and Leathernecks MC as well as five hundred individual riders joined.

On June 10, 2010, the Patriot Guard Riders will be present for another interment overdue by more than four decades.  On May 22, 1968, during the Vietnam conflict, the A130C Spectre gunship whose call sign was Blind Bat 01 went down near Laos.  All crewmembers were lost and declared MIA.  The crew consisted of the following servicemen:

• Lieutenant Colonel William H. Mason (pilot)
• Captain Thomas B. Mitchell (co-pilot)
• Captain William T. McPhail (navigator)
• Major Jerry L. Chambers (observer)
• Sergeant Calvin C. Glover (flight engineer)
• AM1 Thomas E. Knebel (crew chief)
• Sergeant Gary Pate (loadmaster)
• AM1 Melvin D. Rash (loadmaster)
• AM1 John Q. Adam (loadmaster)

Over the years, recovery efforts have proceeded tirelessly, resulting in the location and identification of these fallen soldiers.  To learn more about these efforts, please see my article, Bring Them Home.  It can be found on this site, under the Veterans Corner.

The crew of the Spectre gunship will be laid to their final rest, with full military honors, in a single grave on the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery. The service will take place at June 10, 2010, at approximately 0900 hours (9:00 AM).  The PGR has been invited to attend and will be there, standing tall, silent, and proud as they welcome these heroes home.  They will meet at Murphy’s Funeral Home to render honors as the remains are readied for transport.  The riders will provide a mounted escort from the funeral home to the cemetery, following the procession from the Administration Building and then the caisson to the gravesite, where final honors will be rendered to the heroes and their families.

As an American citizen and a veteran, I feel that at 9:00 AM on June 10, 2010, we should all offer a moment of silence and a prayer for the crew of Blind Bat 01, who returned home after 42 years of having gone missing in action in the jungles of Laos.