From: janet
This is such a special e-mail. We often hear this type of thing
but never do anything to defend. Maybe that's what's wrong in our
society today; people can degrade and belittle those who are doing
everything to preserve our quality of life, and we sit idlely by and let
them in the name of politeness and maybe the fact that we would be
embarrassed. I applaud this woman and would like to think that
placed in the same position, we would do the same and, maybe we should
begin to say more. I think the "majority" has been
silent long enough. Strickly, my opinion. Jan
media-mid/willie.mid
media-mid/beale.mid
media-mid/zonky.mid
Jazz synchronized by John Farrell Willie The Weeper
- for fans of the Jelly Roll Morton style of piano playing Used
with permission
I was sitting alone in one of those loud, casual steakhouses that you
find all over the country. You know the type--a bucket of peanuts on
every table, shells littering the floor, and a bunch of perky college kids racing
around with longneck beers and sizzling platters.
Taking a sip of my iced tea, I studied the crowd over the rim of my
glass. My gaze lingered on a group enjoying their meal. They wore no
uniform to identify their branch of service, but they were definitely
"military:" clean shaven, cropped haircut, and that
"squared away" look that comes with pride.
Smiling sadly, I glanced across my table to the empty seat where my
husband usually sat. It had only been a few months since we sat in this
very booth, talking about his upcoming deployment to the Middle East.
That was when he made me promise to get a sitter for the kids, come back
to this restaurant once a month and treat myself to a nice steak. In
turn he would treasure the thought of me being here, thinking about him
until he returned home to me.
I fingered the little flag pin I constantly wear and wondered where he
was at this very moment. Was he safe and warm? Was his cold any better?
Were my letters getting through to him? As I pondered these thoughts,
high pitched female voices from the next booth broke into my thoughts.
"I don't know what Bush is thinking about. Invading Iraq. You'd
think that man would learn from his old man's mistakes. Good lord. What
an idiot! I can't believe he is even in office. You do know, he stole
the election."
I cut into my steak and tried to ignore them, as they began an endless
tirade running down our president. I thought about the last night I
spent with my husband, as he prepared to deploy. He had just returned
from getting his smallpox and anthrax shots. The image of him standing
in our kitchen packing his gas mask still gives me chills.
Once again the women's voices invaded my thoughts. "It is all about
oil, you know. Our soldiers will go in and rape and steal all the oil
they can in the name of 'freedom.' Hmph! I wonder how many innocent
people they'll kill without giving it a thought? It's pure greed, you
know."
My chest tightened as I stared at my wedding ring. I could still see how
handsome my husband looked in his "mess dress" the day he
slipped it on my finger. I wondered what he was wearing now. Probably
his desert uniform, affectionately dubbed "coffee stains" with
a heavy bulletproof vest over it.
"You know, we should just leave Iraq alone. I don't think they are
hiding any weapons. In fact, I bet it's all a big act just to increase
the President's popularity. That's all it is, padding the military
budget at the expense of our social security and education. And, you
know what else? We're just asking for another 9-ll. I can't say when it
happens again that we didn't deserve it."
Their words brought to mind the war protesters I had watched gathering
outside our base. Did no one appreciate the sacrifice of brave men and
women, who leave their homes and family to ensure our freedom? Do they
even know what "freedom" is?
I glanced at the table where the young men were sitting, and saw their
courageous faces change. They had stopped eating and looked at each
other dejectedly, listening to the women talking.
"Well, I, for one, think it's just deplorable to invade Iraq, and I
am certainly sick of our tax dollars going to train professional baby
killers we call a military."
Professional baby killers? I thought about what a wonderful father my
husband is, and of how long it would be before he would see our children
again.
That's it! Indignation rose up inside me. Normally reserved, pride
in my husband gave me a brassy boldness I never realized I had. Tonight
one voice will answer on behalf of our military, and let her pride in
our troops be known.
Sliding out of my booth, I walked around to the adjoining booth and
placed my hands flat on their table. Lowering myself to eye level with
them, I smilingly said, "I couldn't help overhearing your
conversation. You see, I'm sitting here trying to enjoy my dinner alone.
And, do you know why? Because my husband, whom I love with all my heart,
is halfway around the world defending your right to say rotten things
about him."
"Yes, you have the right to your opinion, and what you think is
none of my business. However, what you say in public is something else,
and I will not sit by and listen to you ridicule MY country, MY
president, MY husband, and all the other fine American men and women who
put their lives on the line, just so you can have the
"freedom" to complain. Freedom is an expensive commodity,
ladies. Don't let your actions cheapen it."
I must have been louder that I meant to be, because the manager came
over to inquire if everything was a ll right. "Yes, thank
you," I replied. Then turning back to the women, I said,
"Enjoy the rest of your meal."
As I returned to my booth applause broke out. I was embarrassed for
making a scene, and went back to my half-eaten steak. The women picked
up their check and scurried away.
After finishing my meal, and while waiting for my check, the manager
returned with a huge apple cobbler ala mode. "Compliments of those
soldiers," he said. He also smiled and said the ladies tried to pay
for my dinner, but that another couple had beaten them to it. When I
asked who, the manager said they had already left, but that the
gentleman was a veteran, and wanted to take care of the wife of
"one of our boys."
With a lump in my throat, I gratefully turned to the soldiers and
thanked them for the cobbler. Grinning from ear to ear, they came over
and surrounded the booth. "We just wanted to thank you, ma'am. You
know we can't get into confrontations with civilians, so we appreciate
what you did."
As I drove home, for the first time since my husband's deployment, I
didn't feel quite so alone. My heart was filled with the warmth of the
other diners who stopped by my table, to relate how they, too, were
proud of my husband, and would keep him in their prayers. I knew their
flags would fly a little higher the next day.
Perhaps they would look for more tangible ways to show their pride in
our country, and the military who protect her. And maybe, just maybe,
the two women who were railing against our country, would pause for a
minute to appreciate all the freedom America offers, and the price it
pays to maintain it's freedom.
As for me, I have learned that one voice CAN make a difference. Maybe
the next time protesters gather outside the gates of the base where I
live, I will proudly stand on the opposite side with a sign of my own.
It will simply say, "Thank You!"
Lori
Kimble is a 31 year old teacher and proud military wife.
A California native, Mrs. Kimble currently lives in Alabama.
1-18-04
