With a Twinkle In His Eye

My Grandfather. D.P. Carter, is ailing. Cancer is running it’s insidious course through his body. My company was able to get me through my home town so I could spend some time with him today. I knew he was frail, but I wasn't quite ready for what I saw. He has such a strong mind and determined spirit. The man is a fighter par excellence, yet his body is letting him down. He was sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, because he didn’t want me to see him in that bed when I came in. He looked shrunken,..frail,...and tired. From a distance, he almost looked “hollow-eyed,“ but those eyes burned bright when I walked up to him. The first thing he noticed was a my bald head. "Where did your hair go, boy?" I told him I gave it the day off. He laughed. He wanted to go in the living room where we could talk. So the hospice nurse, a dear soul named Lou, got him in his wheelchair and in the living room we went.

Grandpa is in a sort of fog right now. He has a tough time connecting thoughts, remembering things he's already said, heard, or seen. The conversation was disjointed at first, so I thought we'd go back down memory lane instead. That got him alert. I asked him about the time, when he was a little boy, when he waited until his dad was taking a nap, and then dipped his dad's hand in chicken poop before taking a feather and tickling his dad’s nose with it. Grandpa laughed and said, 'He rubbed that shit all over his face." He added, "I got my ass beat, but it was worth it." And then we were off to the races, talking about old times. He told me the story of when Lake Charles High was playing a football game back in the 50s. He and my Uncle Lester got drunk and marched on the field with the band at half time. Or the time they faked press credentials and got into the press box during a LCHS away game. Then there was the story about him and Grandma, Lester and Aunt Lou, going to Beaumont and “honky tonkin.” They came back home and one of Grandma's sisters was there waiting. Grandma's sister, Edna, was a teetotaler and believed alcohol was evil. Grandpa said, "I tried to act sober, but Lester was passed out. Edna was standing there watching. I opened the door and Lester just rolled out onto the ground." He started laughing and I said, "And you caught hell?" "You got that right boy!" It was priceless.

I picked up a little book that he wrote a few years ago. It's a book about his life. My favorite passage is the one where he met my Grandma Carter many years ago in Church Point, LA. He described her as, "...the cutest little coonass I had ever seen." He goes on in the book to point out that he was a truck driver, delivering beer for JAX Brewery out of New Orleans. This didn't endear him to Grandma's father who, Paw Paw tells us as an aside, was a Presbyterian minister. Again, priceless stuff.

A few years ago, Grandpa was in a nasty head on collision in town. He ended up in hospital busted up pretty badly. He told me the story about how the docs said that he had actually died that day and they brought him back. In the middle of the story, he forgot what he was saying and went back to the beginning of the story and started telling it to me all over again, unaware that he had just told me the story. I smiled and listened because I don’t want him to stop telling me stories,…ever. He repeated himself yet again, and on the third round I figured I should verbally do the equivalent of bumping the needle when a record gets stuck. So I interrupted him and said, "I know how the docs brought you back." "You do?" he asked. "Yep," I said. He replied "Well they manipulated my pace maker." I said, "Nope, that's not how they did it." He leaned in, looked at me intently and said, "Well then, how did they bring me back?" I answered "Gumbo." "Huh?" "They brought you a bowl of gumbo and you came back!" He looked at me for a moment, and then said, "You're full of shit, ya know that?" I said, "Yes sir. Look who I got it from." He started laughing and we were off again.

He asked my Aunt Rosalie to go get his big Bible. He asked if I had time to listen to him tell me about the family. I said of course, and that I wanted to pass all that information down to my kids. “Oh, please do,“ he said. Aunt Rosalie brought his Bible and there in the front, years ago he had written the names of his brothers and sisters along with their dates of birth and death. He told me about his parents and siblings. He is the last surviving member of that family. His parents were share croppers. Dirt poor. He was one of 12 children, only 8 of whom survived. They lived a hard, hard life. In his book, Grandpa wrote, “To be honest, we were so poor, that the poor people called us poor.” Describing one house the family lived in, he writes:

“It was a big old house, with a chimney at each end of the the house, the kitchen was separated from the house with a little walkway connecting the two together. There were cracks in the floor, and you could see the ground underneath, so just swept the trash through the cracks. The house was three or four feet above the ground. There were cracks in the wall, and there were no glass windows. The windows had wooden shutters and when you opened them, there was the wide open space outside.”

Grandpa goes on to tell us that the reason why there were high poster beds back then was so mosquito bars could be hung on them. That way the family could sleep without being eaten alive by the bugs. But despite all the hardship, the overall impression Grandpa leaves in his writing is of a happy family. Hard working, but happy. He has always been the most naturally jovial person I've ever known.

After about an hour of visiting, including a walk down the driveway and back, he was tired. We got him into the hospital bed, and he was asleep before he ever hit the pillow. The hospice nurse looked at me and said, "He's a special man." "Yes ma'am," I answered, "From the time I was this high (gesturing with my hand close the floor), I always looked forward to visiting Paw Paw Carter. I knew there would be jokes, smiles, and lots of laughter." Lou told me that even when he is in pain, he makes jokes with her. I’m not surprised. It seems to go with the territory in this family.

I don't know that Grandpa will be with us much longer. His 93rd birthday is next month and something in my gut tells me he may not live to see it. The laughter is still there. The quick wit and humor is still there. But his body is fighting him, and he is tired. Tired and frustrated that he can't will his body to keep up with his soul. When he goes, the world will smile a little less. When that bright light of his moves on, things will darken a bit for the rest of us. But in a way, he's spent a lifetime teaching us by example not to take ourselves, or life itself, too seriously. I've heard it said that one of the ways you measure success is not by the stuff you accumulate, or even the titles you earn. It's the smiles you leave behind that show your measure. If that's true, and I suspect it is, my Grandfather is a giant of a man. Our loss will be Heaven's gain.

Memo to Barbara Boxer

I had heard about the incident, but didn’t really believe it could be true. We hear so much about elitist, pompous-assed types inside the beltway that I assumed this story was just so much hype. Surely, a term of respect from a decorated military officer would not be rebuffed by a politician, no? So, thanks to the resources of the new media, I saw the video for myself. I’m astonished, disappointed, and ashamed at the level to which our political class has lowered itself.

Madam Senator, Ma’am, Your Awesomeness, whatever the deuce you want the world to call you, as a tax payer, a citizen (this means you work for me, not the other way around) and a military veteran with 20 years of service defending your sorry hide, just who do you think you are? In the military, as well as in the part of the country I am from, the term ma’am or sir, is a sign of respect and yet this was not good enough for you? This man has served our country honorably. Looking at his medals, I see that he participated in both Desert Storm and Iraqi Freedom. The man is Ranger qualified, parachute qualified, has been awarded two Bronze Stars for combat service to this country, has made a career of risking his life so you and your cohorts can screw up ours, and you presume to lecture him and demand that he rhetorically kiss your derriere?

Allow me to help you with this business of titles: You and your colleagues have managed in a very short time to accumulate more debt than all of our past presidents combined. Ignoring Constitutional constraints on federal power, the government of which you are a part insists on meddling in our lives, confiscating our property, taking over private businesses, stealing the wealth of our children and grandchildren, punishing industry and rewarding sloth, all while dismantling our defenses and returning us to a pre 9/11 posture while North Korea fires missiles like they were firecrackers and Iran tramples its citizens and mocks our wobbly Commander in Chief. You people even regulate how much water can be flushed in our toilets!! Appropriately, Congress has lower approval ratings than the average used car salesman and yet you get your knickers in a bunch because one of America’s finest calls you ma’am? There are worse titles that spring immediately to mind. Get over yourself lady. You’re a politician, not a deity.

In All Humility,
Dave Carter

Motor City My Bayou Born Butt

The good thing about driving up north this time of year is the that the weather is cooler. The bad thing is...well,....everything else. Forbes magazine looked at 75 of the largest metropolitan areas in the US and rated Detroit as the second worst city for a driver. Now I know why. I spent most of the day trying to get from one side of the Detroit to the other. Actually getting through the city is certainly not what city leaders apparently want. I had to through town to get to Pontiac, MI, which is on the north side of Detroit. Since I-75 runs north and south right through town, I figured this would not be a problem. It never occurred to me that the @!$*& interstate would be shut down. But it was!!

Fortunately, there were signs that said to take an alternate route. I looked at my atlas, while traveling of course, and saw that I could take I-275 north. Then I could take I-94 back east and join up with I-75 further north, OR I could take 275 on up to I-696 east, which would again take me to I-75. I saw that where I-94 meets I-75 is still in the downtown area, so I figured 696 would spare me from having to drive through that circus. There were even signs on I-275 that reminded me that I-696 was an alternative route. I figured, hell, if the sign likes the idea then so do I!! So I passed I-94 and headed for I-696, see? It was only after I passed I-94 that new signs informed me that I-696 was under construction, and advised me to seek an alternate route. So I was now looking for an alternate to the alternate. With me so far? If so, give yourself some ice cream.
Now, I'm not from Detroit, so I don't know the local routes. Plus, I'm driving an 18 wheeler, so I've no idea if the local routes are closed to large trucks. I therefore had no choice but to continue on through the construction on I-696, where several lanes converged into one lane. It took two (count 'em!), TWO hours to get from the south side of the Detroit to the north side. Those of you who are in favor of government-run health care, please read the above experience again. If the all-knowing, all-wise, all-seeing bureaucracy can’t handle something like roads and highways, how in the name of Hippocrates’ left nostril are they going to handle your medical needs?

Fortunately, I was carrying a trailer full of automobile air bags, so if there had been an accident, at least no one would have been hurt, right? I delivered the air bags (not to be confused politicians, who are more correctly called gas bags), and headed back south again. The signs going south on I-75 advised me to exit the highway at something called 8 Mile Rd because the highway was closed. In fact, going back on I-696 (the way I came) was out of the question because it was completely closed on the west bound side. Having entirely too much fun at this point, me and my large truck took to itsy bitsy 8 Mile Rd. This road has many stop lights, low bridges, a few liquor stores and hookers thrown in for good measure. The city leaders have worked hard to provide newcomers to their fair city an in-depth look at Detroit's diverse culture. Whether or not you can get through with your vehicle in one piece is another matter because the roads are the worst I have encountered anywhere in the country. Seatbelts are not only law here, they are the only thing that will keep you from flying through the windshield as you bounce from one crater to the next.

Fortunately, 8 Mile Rd intersects with state highway 39, which is a major artery that you will miss because the signs indicating how to get on that highway are few and are placed so that if you weren't in the correct lane (far left) to begin with, you won't have time to make it to the exit and will have to find a place to turn around without A) getting hit by one of the locals who drive like old ladies on a bad acid trip, or B) getting attacked or mugged by one of the local hospitality specialists (gang members). Highway 39 will eventually take you to I-75 on the south side of town, where you finally take your leave of this place.

But what Detroit lacks in planning (i.e., shutting down the interstate and then screwing up the alternate routes as well), it more than makes up for in rudeness. This is where nice people go to become mean, and it's where mean people go to become criminals. You see, I've theorized in recent years that a car is like truth serum. You don't have to get someone drunk to find out what they are really like. Just put them behind the wheel!! Ensconced in the anonymity of their vehicles, people feel free to become themselves. Maybe they think no one will recognize them, so they don't have to pretend to be courteous. Where they would never cut in line at the grocery store, they will do so without a moment's hesitation behind the wheel. In Detroit, they leave their place in a line of cars and drive along the shoulder of the highway, where there is no lane, so they can cut in further ahead. If you put your blinker on to move over and let someone merge into traffic, traffic to your left will rush up and block you so you can't extend that courtesy. Then, the person trying to merge gets angry because you won't move over, not realizing this his fellow numb-nuts are the ones blocking you. And, heaven help you, if are actually able to move over so this screwball can get into traffic, he will stay to your right and block you out in the fast lane where everyone tailgates you and wonders why you were in the fast lane to begin with. These people are nuttier than squirrel turds, but they have an attitude that is beyond mean. It's rabid, and makes Ohio look pleasant by comparison.

Fortunately, I'm headed back south now, with a load of vinegar going just south of Atlanta. Now, Atlanta drivers are a bit strange at times too, but they are the Sisters of Mercy compared to Detroit drivers. And Atlanta highways are the streets of gold compared to the bone-jarring, absurdly planned, mass hazard that passes for a highway system in Detroit. Tonight, I’m comfortably south of Toledo. Time for a Happy Meal.

Memorial Day

“We sleep safe in our beds at night because rough men stand watch in the dark, ready to visit harm upon those who would injure us.” H.G. Wells

The weather man called for rain today, but the weather hadn’t bothered to listen to the forecast. It was sunny and warm with a smattering of clouds here and there to provide momentary shade. A constant breeze kept the heat in check and kept the flags waving. In fact, the first things I noticed at Kent-Forest Cemetery in Panama City, FL, were flags. Flags everywhere. There is a section of the cemetery known as the Garden of Honor and it is here that members of our armed forces are buried. A brick walk goes through the center of the Garden of Honor ending at a pedestal surrounded by a U.S. Flag and the flags of each of our armed services. There’s a large plaque on the pedestal that pays tribute to the war dead that surround that little circle of flags in the Garden of Honor.

This is Decoration Day, or so it was named in 1868 when the day was set aside at Arlington Cemetery, according to union General John Logan, “…for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country.” It wasn’t intended as a day of mourning so much as a day of remembrance and resolve that the blood shed in our defense would not be in vain. Today, this Garden of Honor was awash in a sea of flags. The Patriot Guard, a volunteer organization composed largely of bikers, stood at the perimeter of the ceremony holding large American Flags in honor of the fallen. Flags adorned each of the graves in the Garden of Honor. Veterans of every conflict since World War II were in attendance. Gold Star families (those who have lost loved ones in war) were there as well. Some vets wore their old uniforms out of respect, others the clothing of their organizations (American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars, Disabled Veterans, etc.), and still others like yours truly wore hats with their medals and insignia pinned to the front.

As the ceremony began, with patriotic songs by local singers, my mind kept going back to another memorial. At Prince Sultan Air Base, Saudi Arabia, a memorial to those killed in the Khobar Towers attack was constructed. While deployed there, I visited that memorial regularly to pay my respect to my brothers and sisters that were killed and injured in the attack. Fathers, sisters, sons, daughters, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, comrades in arms. They were just like us, talking about what we would do once the “Freedom Bird” took us back to “the world” (home), what it would be like to see our kids again, our families, where we were going to take the family on vacation, etc. And then one day….a sudden, bone shattering concussion, and those people will never see their families again. For the military member, one bullet or one explosion and you’ve gone from Veterans Day to Memorial Day. Your dreams, your hopes, your plans, they all stop. To my dying day I will believe that it is harder on the families than anyone else. Today there was a section reserved for Gold Star families, a few of whom walked to the center of the Garden of Honor to see the plaque. The pain in their eyes told the story. To them, the sight of our flag, the sound of the National Anthem, the crack of gunfire as a 21-gun salute is rendered, the playing of Taps,…these all have an impact on these people that is so deep, so personal, it cuts to their very souls.

All of these thoughts were coming to the surface as the Honor Guard presented The Colors. The National Anthem was sung, and I along with other vets rendered a sharp salute. I can’t render a salute to our flag without remembering my brothers and sisters that didn’t come home. I can see the young man with over 100 pounds of gear on his back, sweat pouring, eyes squinting as he tries to figure out if that is a “friendly” or an “unfriendly” approaching him, knowing that his next decision will determine if he comes home or not, or if he is to be second guessed and court martialed. I think of my best friend Technical Sergeant Lee, another retiree, whose disabilities leave him on oxygen a good part of the time, unable to get about without the assistance of a cane, heart trouble, hands in braces, chronic pain, you name it, and he is not that much older than I. But the kicker is that Bob would do it all again in a heart beat for our country. Prior to one of my various deployments to the mid east, I spoke with Bob on the phone. In one of those “gut check” moments, he told me, “Dave, remember, you have to go. But you don’t have to come back.” This is the reality that stays with us, and leaves people like me moved to tears at ceremonies like today’s. Why did some of us make it while many of our betters didn’t?

The guest speaker at today’s ceremony was Mrs. Deborah Tanish, whose son, Sgt Patrick Tanish (US Army) was killed by a road side bomb in 2004. She spoke from the heart, but was also armed with facts. Did you know that less than 1 percent of the US population serves in the armed forces? That’s less than 1 percent defending the other 99+ percent. She told the story of a young corporal in Iraq who saw an Iraqi father and his daughter making their way back to their home. The young girl was carrying a heavy load on her back while her father carried nothing. This is antithetical to American culture where we simply will not treat our children as beasts of burden. So the corporal approached the father and told him that he would carry his daughter if the father would carry her load. The father agreed, and the corporal, already weighed down by over 100 pounds of gear, carried the young girl to her home. These are the kinds of people who stand between the rest of us and a large group of blood-thirsty lunatics who want nothing more than to kill as many of us as possible. So, you ask, what happened to that young corporal? He was later killed in combat in Iraq. Today we honor him and so many like him.

At the ceremony’s conclusion, the first volley of gunfire for the 21-gun salute startled a few people in the crowd. Then, from the side, the slow and mournful tones of Taps sounded. Veterans again saluted as a final show of respect to our fallen brothers and sisters. Just over the horizon, as the last notes of Taps played out, a four-ship formation of F-15s from nearby Tyndall Air Force Base approached the cemetery at low altitude. As the formation flew overhead, one of the fighter jets separated from the formation, pointing his jet straight up into the clouds and engaging the afterburners in a gigantic roar of tribute to the warrior spirit of our comrades killed in battle.

In the movie Saving Private Ryan, an old man visit’s the grave of the man who saved his life during the war and says, “I hope that at least in your eyes, I’ve earned what all of you have done for me.” Writing in National Review, Chairman of Vets for Freedom Pete Hegseth observed that, “The minute, excuse me—the second—we believe our freedom is ‘inevitable and/or immutable,’ we cease to live in history, and have soured the soldier's sacrifice. He died in the field, so we can enjoy this beautiful day (and weekend). Our freedoms—purchased on the battlefield—are indeed “worthy of war.” That is why, through the tears and the solemn respect, we pay homage to our fallen heroes. Today is a day for remembrance and for celebration. Celebration that such men and women exists. Celebration that our nation can produce such extraordinary people. And for me, looking down at the headstone of a young private who was killed at the age of 18 in World War I, celebration that I can refer to people in this generation of heroes as my friends.