Monday, November 25, 2013

Charles Waterhouse, Famed Marine Artist, Dies

always liked Mr. Waterhouse's work.
first time i laid eyes on it -- the museum @ Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego.
with the Old Timers minding the halls.
wrinkled and gray. 
sporting red and gold. 
an eagle, globe and anchor ball cap.
some green tattoo blurred by the sun on their forearm.
looking @ us kids…like we had it all.
it wasn't the best of times -- the DIs just around the corner ready snatch us back.
but it gave you hope. 
a little @ least...







November 10th and the #VA

A year has passed. And not much has changed. 

Some sources claim 18 Veterans commit suicide a day. Nearly 30 percent of returning Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans are diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Despite a slight uptick in the economy, Veteran unemployment rates remain higher than the general population. These sobering statistics are compounded by the very organization that is supposed to help our returning soldiers -- the VA.

The Department of Veterans Affairs has been unable to handle the needs of our new generation of warriors — so much so, nearly 600,000 former service-members are currently awaiting their healthcare benefits to be approved by the VA.

http://www.guns.com/2013/05/27/the-disjointed-veterans-administration/


Sunday, November 24, 2013

a belated Veterans Day 2013

nearly let it pass for the first time in a decade without a nod.
a thanks.


Semper Fi.

creases on camouflage

I took out my old camouflaged uniform and the creases were still there. 
Hadn't ironed them. 
Or starched them. 
Just took them right out the dryer and there they were -- the creases. So I placed them on a shelf, folded and neat.
I tried to write, but the words weren't there.
But the cammi's were.
Faded.
The dark greens were now pastels. The browns and blacks muted. 
Tattered fabric mapping field operations.
The running. The jumping. The hating. The sweat and the blood.
These were very old uniforms. Bootcamp issue.
I bring my cammi's to my face. Inhale deep -- crisp canvas and a hint of starch.
And the creases. White lines running the length of my thigh. Sharp and smoothed by the iron.
We'd starch them in garrison. The iron steaming, sizzling as it slid past the greens and blacks and browns.
I walk to the mirror and look at myself now. 
In my cammi's.
Like some Vietnam Vet marching against the war. Unshaven. Un-Sat. 
Like a GI atop some float, gray-haired, sporting his VFW colors, waving to the crowd on November 10th.
But my uniform doesn't fit well. It hangs off my frame, two sizes too big.
Like a different man wore this uniform.
Not me. Not me with sideburns and soul patch.
That's the funny thing. 
It was.

I take off my old uniform and fold it nicely -- remembering the kids who wore them too.


Saturday, November 23, 2013

sundown @ old Fort MacArthur

once upon a time the West Coast was armed with 14-inch rail-guns.
firing explosive shells.
firing clear past Catalina.
but now, years later,  red-tailed hawks and brown-billed pelicans patrol the bunkers overlooking the sea.
and now, the mobile cannons are stripped bare.
just concrete and steel.
just sagebrush slowing creeping.
slowly taking back what's theirs.
the sunsets are dramatic. beautiful.
sit and watch the sun dip down past the horizon.
take in that moment.
because it is a very good one.