June 8, 1991

Sweet young precious life

Memories getting older

Never forgotten

Gentle wisp of wind

Touch my face, tell me you're here

Touch my heart and soul

Jim Cooper

June 8, 1991. That is a very important date in our lives here at Spadoville. It was twenty one years ago on this date that our oldest daughter Maggie was killed in an automobile accident. It still hurts. It still cuts deeply into our souls.

Along with Maggie, we lost Jim Cooper on that day. That's him, leaning on his old jalopy, in the photo above. Adrienne was in the back seat and lived to tell about it. It’s been tough for her as a survivor of such a tragedy. But it is her vow to carry on my daughter’s memory, forever. Ours too.

Bobby, Maggie and Adrienne on Maggie's graduation day in 1991. We lost Bobby too a few years later. He was in a plane crash. His story will be told in November

Yes, there are others in each of our lives that have passed on before us, but today is the day we remember this particular tragedy. I think a trip to the cemetery is in order today. We’ll look at her name on the granite stone marker. We’ll see the roses that Adrienne placed there. We’ll throw roses into the small pond that resides close to the granite bench. We will cry. We will embrace each other. We will go on living in the shadow of having lost our first born daughter. We will remember.

Don’t pity us, please. Just remember we are human and have lost a part of ourselves. Know that we are not quite ourselves today. Pray for peace for all people. Thank your higher power for every blessing you have.

Margaret Ellen, (Maggie), Spado
07/26/1973----------06/08/1991

Peace

 More Haiku My Heart can be seen at recuerda mi corazón

The Wyoming/Colorado Tire Fiasco

It was Saturday April 28th when I loaded up the car and hooked up the trailer with my motorcycle aboard and headed West on the first leg of my latest adventure. The plans were to drive to California, spend some time there riding, visiting friends and playing music, then return home with a friend and his motorcycle in tow.

Here's the Spadomobile loaded and ready to travel

This was eventually accomplished. We had a great time once we got there, but getting there wasn’t without some drama. We had a flat tire blowout near the Wyoming/Colorado border along a less-traveled two lane road a little South and West of Rawlins, WY. State Route 789.

We were about 60 miles away from Rawlins, WY and traveling on our journey without a care in the world. The bike was solidly affixed to and riding on the trailer. My car, a new-to-me 2007 Mazda CX-9 that was purchased not one month earlier, was performing well. Using a bit more gasoline than I’d wanted it to, but driving quite nicely.

Wyoming Highway 789 looked a lot like this one sans the traffic

Not a car in sight, either way. I didn’t pass any, none passed me and none were seen headed North in the oncoming lane. In fact, we commented about how we had the road all to ourselves. I was traveling with my good friend Dave.

Dave is one of the people responsible for introducing me to Mrs. Spadoman way back in January of 1971. He also introduced me to his brother-in-law Hal, the friend we were going to see in California, as Hal is married to Dave’s sister, Ellen. With that established, all you really need to know is that I was not alone on this deserted two lane highway when we heard the muffled “POP” of a blowout.

Now I have logged in over a million miles of driving semi rigs for a living over the years and at least another million in my car or on a motorcycle traveling highways in the good ole US of A. I know that sound and I immediately touched the brake pedal to release the cruise control and started to brake as the right rear tire went down. It started making that flopping noise as I pulled over as far as I could to the side of the shoulderless roadway.

Yep, it's flat, but only on the bottom!

We came to a stop, got out and assessed the situation.

It was flat all right. I had a jack, and I had a spare. Changing it would be a chore as  the back end, packed with gear for our trip, would need to be emptied and the apparatus taken out and assembled to jack the car up. But the slope of the roadside would be a safety hazard. We had to decide if we should try to change the tire ourselves or call “The Man”.

I remembered I paid the big bucks to have AAA road assistance. And, I belonged to the upper echelon of AAA road service with the additional premiums I paid for the “plus” next to my name on my gold AAA identification card. I called triple A and talked with a representative from my home state of Wisconsin.

I was thinking, “Here I am in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire, but I am glad I have cell phone service.”

The kind voice transferred me to the Wyoming branch for the road service. I was told a tow truck would be at my location in about two hours.

Dave and I wrangled the spare tire down out of the suspended rack that resides under the rear end of the car. We decided not to try to jack the car up ourselves with our factory equipment as the ground sloped severely at the side of the road and there would be no way for the car to be stable. We waited for AAA.

I thought the car came with a full size spare tire. When I bought the car, I was told that the tires were newly installed. I thought I remembered the salesperson telling me the spare was new as well. It was new. A never-been-used temporary spare tire that is usually referred to as a doughnut spare. 

The temporary, or Doughnut Spare, tire. Don't look like much, does it?

Triple A came and changed the tire. They had the right equipment and did the job quickly in a safe manner. We were back in business and on the road. I knew these temporary spare tires had a limit as to how fast you can safely go. We were about 60-70 miles away from Craig, Colorado, a medium sized town that I was sure had a tire store. We took our time and never exceeded the 50 miles per hour speed limit that is clearly printed on the sidewall of the spare tire.

We got into Craig. Did I mention it was Sunday? And did I mention it was late in the afternoon on a Sunday? Did I tell you that there are indeed two regular tire stores, three auto dealerships, two car repair places and a gas station that sell tires in Craig, CO?

Well, this is all true, but they were all closed late in the day on a Sunday afternoon. Our only option was to get a motel room and spend the night. I’d get up early in the morning and find a tire and get our car repaired so we could resume our journey.

We wanted to get to Grand Junction, CO on that Sunday as I had a friend there that was going to feed and house us before we set off through the high desserts of Utah and Nevada. I called Sonya and told her we weren’t going to make it as we will be spending the night in Craig. Sonya and my middle daughter were friends and traveled all across the country for a year or so when they were just out of high school. Through the years, Sonya has remained a great friend not only to my daughter Alyssa, but to the whole Spado clan!

Stock photo of the Elk Run Motel in Craig, CO
We had a room above the office

We did find a very nice clean quaint and rather unique motel in Craig called The Elk Run Inn. The young woman that worked the front desk was delightful. We were given a room with two beds and a complete kitchen that was located up one flight of the office. It came with a sliding glass door that opened to a large covered porch with a great view of historic US Highway 40. If I ever need to spend the night in Craig again, I would return and stay at the Elk Run Inn.

On Monday morning, earlier than the tire stores would be open for the day, I was ready to find a place to purchase a new tire that either matched my Michelin all season radials or came close in tread pattern and riding characteristics, that being, a highway tread touring tire. I set out and as the stores opened, I was the first in line.

“No such tire around here”, I was told. “This is mostly rancher country. You know, pick up trucks and all. We don’t get much call for that kind and size of a tire, so we don’t stock ‘em.”, was repeated by the tire stores, the car dealerships, the service garages and the gas station.

Of course they could order me one and it would be here tomorrow. I decided that even at 50 miles per hour, the safest and fastest speed I could drive the car on the temporary doughnut spare, we could be in Grand Junction, 160 miles away by late afternoon and I was sure we’d find a tire there. In fact, I called Big O Tire and Sears Auto Center and made sure one of those places had my tire in stock. They did, so, we left Craig and slowly drove to Grand Junction.

We arrived in Grand Junction by about 2 PM on Monday. We didn’t cause any accidents and weren’t in the way too much as we traveled at that slow rate of speed. Especially that part of the trip that had us amidst the 75 mile per hour traffic of Interstate 70 while moving along at a brisk m52 miles per hour!

My friend Sonya met us at Sears and as the car was getting tires, she took us out to lunch at a pizza and sandwich shop that her significant other owns called Diorio’s Pizza and Subs.

Chuck makes an excellent pizza in Grand Junction, CO

After a delicious lunch some great conversation with an old friend, we returned to Sears Auto Center to retrieve the car. Proudly donning a full set, yes, four brand new GoodYear Assurance all season radials, mounted and balanced.

Here's where you order

I needed one tire to replace the one that blew out. I then thought it prudent to replace them in pairs so they would match. Then, I though I should replace them as a set and did so. Over $1000.00 and a day later than when we had the flat, we were on the road and drove to Delta, Utah where we spent the night.

I kept one tire to eventually mount and use as a full size spare. This tire carcass still sits in my garage and awaits attention. The other two “good” tires are at Sonya’s place in Grand Junction. I told her I would send her the tire information so she could list them on Craigslist and hopefully get a few bucks for them. I need to do this. I just remembered as I am writing this. Sorry Sonya, thanks for being so patient with me.

I had a great visit with Sonya in the Sears parking lot

The temporary spare was put back into its holder beneath the rear end of the car. I have driven approximately 9500 miles on the new set of GoodYear tires and I am pleased. And of course, I have no trouble with them since I spent an additional $100.00 on the tire hazard warrantee. 

This was the tire fiasco. Nothing money couldn't fix I guess. We got to California one day later than we wanted to, but we made it, safe and sound and had a wonderful visit. That is, until my motorcycle started giving me fits, but that’s another story and since it hasn’t ended yet, I’ll save telling you about it until it is resolved.

In the meantime, enjoy your day and be nice to each other.

Peace

The Name Game

No. The title isn't about the hit song in 1964 by Shirley Ellis by the same name. But names are a fun subject as we found out while on the road in March of this year. I was traveling with the two oldest Grandkids. As I get older, so do they. And as they get older, they gain in wisdom And quite frankly, my Grandkids are smart. Maybe smarter than I was at their age. Okay, for sure, they are smarter than I was at their age. But as wise? I dunno.

I am the fortunate one that has a fantastic relationship with these fabulous children. I am so blessed to have them in my life. One of the best parts of our relationship is the time we spend talking to each other. General conversation for the most part, but I get to learn what they are learning if I pay attention.

Sometimes it’s a school lesson or subject. A project they are working on. Like the time the oldest, Anna, wanted to discuss the American Revolution. Turns out she chooses to side with the French! Another example was when 12 year old DJ needed to tell me the most common first name on earth and did so by asking me if I knew the answer to that particular question.

I remembered from way back that I thought John was the most common first name. DJ immediately told me that it wasn’t John. “It is Mohammed”, he said emphatically.

I countered with, “Well, maybe John is the most common first name in the United States.” I added, “And Joseph, my name, is second.” 

I was making this up and hoped I was right. I at least hoped they wouldn’t challenge me as I wasn’t really quite sure. Seems these kids are getting too smart. On DJ’s insistence, we went to the almighty computer and did a search. Sure enough, in the whole of the world, the most common first name is Mohammed. In the United States, James gets the nod.

John is second, and Joseph, my namesake, comes in a lowly ninth. The name Joe, a derivative of Joseph in most cases, is down the list at 51st! Most folks call me Joe or Joey. By the way, Joey comes in at number 307.

I revolted. “If Joe isn’t more popular than that, why do we have so many references to Joe?” 

Hey Joe, (Where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?), Cuppa Joe, Morning Joe, Joe Momma, Plain Old Joe, GI Joe, Say it ain’t so, Joe, Joe this, Joe that, Joe the other. Joe the plumber. Joe the bartender. Joe’s bar. Joe’s Diner. Joe’s Bar and Grill, Eat at Joe’s. Joe Mauer, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Joe Namath, Joe Montana, Joe Hill. 

Cowboy Joe, Joe Millionaire, Joe Blow, Average Joe. Not to mention the use of Joe as a middle name. Billy Joe, Bobby Joe, Randy Joe. There is a Joe, North Carolina and a Joey is what they call a baby kangaroo in Australia. And how many more using the shortened version, spelling Joe without the “E” on the end like Mary Jo? Who is Joe Blow anyway?

Why when I was a kid, a fictitious character we all sought to mock was a character we called Joe Matradatz! I mean, if James is so damn popular, why don’t they use his name for coffee? Cuppa Jim, or Jim Matradatz?

Now, in our name controversy, I had the upper hand. As a 12 year old, DJ hadn’t heard of all these references. Then, we looked up his first name, Derek. He came in at 163rd! Click on these handy links for reference and see where your name is. They have girls too, that list is HERE. The boys names are at This Link.

I managed to get him to agree that Joe should be up higher since it had such significant press and usage, you know, being a part of the vernacular and all. But the facts didn’t lie. At least I was higher than Derek. By the way, he was named after his Grand Fathers. His Dad’s Dad and his Mom’s Dad. Well, he’d have a name higher up on the list if his Father hadn’t insisted that his Dad’s name went first. DJ stands for Derek Joseph. Had he been named JD, he could have been right up there near the top. 

Now, I think I’ll do a search for girls names and see where Josephine comes in. Holy Crap, that one is 121st. Mary gets the number one place. Sorry Anna. You’re at 33, ahead of Derek, but your real name, Arianna is at 2495th.

Where does your name fall in? What were your parents thinking? I remember wanting our first born, if it was a girl, to be Maggie. We used the biblical Margaret, and slanged it to Maggie. Alyssa, our second born, was taken from a book of names. (Must have been smokin’ a little that night). We liked the sound of it. There isn’t a soul that calls her Alyssa. Everyone says Melissa, Poor kid. Mea Culpa. 

Our third daughter is Jayne. It had to have that weird spelling as it was to honor someone that my spousal unit thought very highly of. We call her Jane or Jay’-Nee, but spell it with the “Y” in there. By the way, she hates the phrase “Plain Jane”, and her nicknames is Binky. Go figure.

There can be no end to the stories behind someone’s name or names of towns. I remember reading a book by author William Least Heat Moon called “Blue Highways”. He circumnavigated the USA and wrote about his exploits, similar to “Travels With Charley” by John Steinbeck.

Moon put great emphasis on the unusual names of places. Like Dime Box, TX, Nameless, TN and Remote, OR. Have some fun looking at the names of American cities and towns in This Reference.

Another game we played while on the road was to find a name of a town or city and see how many states it is common to. I think there are 20 Ashlands. Topping this list with 49 is Greenville. That puts a Greenville in almost every state. Guess which state doesn’t have a Greenville. By the way, Franklin is second with 30 states having a city by that name. 

Playing with names of people, places and things can be a lot of fun. Have some fun of your own and report back. I’m sure there is a story for every name. Smith? Johnson? If your last name is one of these two, you are ranked one and two respectively and encompass over 4,600,000 of the population in the US. I live on Johnson Street. Let me see how common that is. 40th. How about that!

Author's Note: I wrote this after our recent March 2012 trip to New Mexico. I have logged over 9000 miles on a motorcycle or driving a car since April 28th. I will eventually be putting together video and still photos from these trips and publishing the stories over the next few months. This should keep me busy between trips the entire Summer.

Peace

Catching Up

Haiku My Heart
June 1, 2012

Lyrics of a song I wrote many year ago said that I was "....makin' a livin' I guess it's the way that I choose" (B Model Blues, 1977, Joe Spado, Dump and Shortcake Band).
My latest whirlwind escapades have me pretty busy and it made me think that I woudn't have it any other way. I guess it's the way that I choose.

But I'm getting backed up. I have stacks of stories, started articles and essays, photos and basic things I want to write about and I am not finding any time. I guess that's a good thing in some respects as I am sleeping later into the morning and not awake and at the computer at 3:00 AM every day, wondering what to write about.

I haven't participated in Rebecca's Haiku My Heart weekly meme. It's on her recuerda mi corazon blog. Happens every Friday. Click on the link and take a look. You'll be pleased. I have missed being a part of that, so I'll write a Haiku today just to tell you that I am alive and kicking' and still "Willin", to be movin'.

The subject of today's Haiku came in the mail

Precious friendship grows


Sealed by gifts, grins art and food


Solid memories

This Haiku has so much meaning for me and comes from my heart. I'll explain it and even show why I wrote these magical words about a blogger pal of mine when I do finally get time to catch up. In the meantime, just think your own meaning. Sometimes, these haiku have direct connotations about what might be happening in your own life.

Headed to South Dakota and points West tomorrow at the crack of dawn and will be absent again for a short spell. When I get back, I'll spend some time getting something interesting to show and tell you about. In the meantime, scroll down one post and read about what I've been up to on my latest motorcycle trip.

Peace to all

Michigan Yooper Trip

Wow, glad Memorial Day is over. That one is one of those emotional roller coaster days for me. Now I can go back to my every day thoughts. Seems pretty good to get back into my daily routine of being up and wide awake at three AM. I got through the day by staying busy, being surrounded by my loving family and had the good fortune of having friends visit Spadoville throughout the day.

In the meantime, I was thinking I need to tell you what else I've been up to over the past week or so. If you remember, my good friend Hal from California is visiting. We set up some studio space in my newly claimed downstairs living area and created a place to play and record music. The old members of the Dump and Shortcake Band got together, and along with Hal, we have laid down some tracks. We recorded some of our original stuff and covered a few tunes we all like to do. I'll post some of those music sessions in another post at another time.

For now, I'd like to show and tell you about our motorcycle trip into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Namely, we went to the end of the Keweenaw, that piece of land along the Southern shore that juts out into the big lake. Known as the U. P. for Upper Peninsula, the locals slang it to Yooper.

Map of Michigan's Keweenaw Peninsula

Our ride used state and county roads to get us from the far Western reaches of Wisconsin, where I live, to Michigan. We tried to take it easy and find some rustic and unique less traveled roads on our way there, but in anticipation of riding in the dirt, gravel and mud way up in the Keweenaw, we just ended up making a bee line.

Road signs stating the obvious

We did get on a few out-of-the-way places, one being blowing right through a “Road Closed” sign on Gogebic County 519 and talking the construction workers into letting us pass over, around and through the work zone. They were pretty good about it. The foreman took one look at the knobby tires and all-terrain look of of our motorcycles and knew there wouldn't be much that would cause us not to make it.

Our first rest stop along the shores of beautiful Great Lake Superior's South shore

After the work zone, we found a beautiful paved section that wound us to the South shore of Lake Superior and the town of Ontonagon. We spent the night there in Scott's Motel. A very clean and beautiful place. It was just a mile or so West of the town center. We ate dinner at a place called Syl’s Cafe and had one of the ethnic delicacies from that part of the world, a pasty.

A traditional Pasty

The Pasty is the Cornish miner’s version of a hand held meal. A lot like a Mexican burrito or an Italian Stromboli. A delicious crust filled with beef, onions, potatoes and rutabaga. With all the copper mines that were the mainstay of the economy in the U.P., the Pasty still thrives.

The next day, we went through Houghton and stopped in Hancock for a fabulous breakfast at a place called Kaleva Cafe.

Eagle River waterfall at Lake Superior

We arrived in Copper Harbor, which resides at the North end of US Highway 41, and secured a room at the King Copper Annex Motel by asking the cleaning lady, a wonderful soul named Dot, if we could ride for now and check in later. She wrote a note to Mary, the desk clerk, and told her to save a room for Joe and Hal. Quaint service for a tourist area.

The far North end of US Highway 41. Only a short ride to Miami from here

With the peace of mind that we had lodging for the night, we headed for the end of the US 41 highway where the road turns into a dirt and gravel track. We went right to it and started putting our bikes through some mild abuse over mud holes, water crossings, large gravel boulders, sand, dirt and blown down tree branches.

We followed a small scale map and used a GPS as well as watched for any signs on the roads that were left over from when the trails were used as a roadway for snowmobiles. This area is a mecca for the snow machines with an average of well over 200 inches per year. This past Winter, with strange extremes throughout the land, Michigan’s UP only saw around 120 inches of snowfall.

Handwritten road signs deep in the wilderness

Our goal was to find the path that took us to the far extreme Eastern point of the peninsula and a view of the Manitou Island lighthouse. Another friend told me to look for snowmobile trail marked as Trail 134. We did see some signs and followed a few gravel tracks that lead us to dead ends, water and mud holes so deep we didn’t dare try to traverse them and loops that had us going round and round in circles.

Manitou Island Lighthouse, seen from High Rock Bay at the far East end of the Keweenaw

We finally found the roadway that took us to our destination and enjoyed some time sitting on the windy sunlit shore of High Rock Bay

My Triumph at High Rock Bay

The return trip to Copper harbor and the promise of a hot shower and a good meal drove us. But first, we had to take care of our machines. We weren’t worried at all about cleaning the mud off of our fenders, after all, it was a badge of honor as these photos of my Scrambler can attest, but we did need gas.

A little mud badge of honor

The only gas station in Copper Harbor was closed. After some local inquiry, we found out that the family that owned the gas station was struggling with a series of illnesses in the family. The nearest gas was 16 miles away in Lac LaBelle. We had enough to get there and fill our tanks and headed out South on US 41, looking for the road that would lead us to the petrol.

When we got there and spotted the single lowly pump standing in a gravel driveway close to the lakeshore of the Lac LaBelle Lodge, Store and Rentals, they were closed. A walk around the property produced a woman that asked us if we needed gas. She told us that she’d turn on the pumps when she affirmed that we were indeed in search of the liquid gold.

Liquid gold indeed. Over $4.75 per gallon. Makes you feel totally violated when they gouge you like that. Captive audience I guess. No gas within 50 miles, so, jack up the price.

We filled up and rode back to Copper Harbor and the Mariner Restaurant and Bar for some evening sustenance. A short trip to the local grocery store for water and a snack to carry with us on the next days ride had us enjoying the lake shore view from our room through the sliding glass doors, which we kept open through the night.

Our view from our room at the King Copper Annex Motel in Copper Harbor, MI

The morning had produced some over night rain. That took the last of the mud from the trails off of the exposed surfaces of the bikes. It was time to head back South, but first, we planned to ride the gravel Mandan Loop one more time and take an alternative route towards home. My motorcycle failed to start and we ascertained that I had some sort of battery and/or charging system problem. We borrowed some jumper cables and got the bike started and running, with a new plan to get to a larger town and buy a set of cables in case they were needed on the ride back into Wisconsin.

Parked at the motel

We made it back to Hancock and remembered a large hardware store located next to the aforementioned Kaleva Cafe. We stopped in and ate breakfast there for the second time and bought a cheap set of jumper cables before we got back on the road. 

We did use the cables numerous times on the way home as my motorcycle was not charging my battery. The system quit about 90 miles from home. I had Mrs. Spadoman bring me my spare battery from the workbench, dropped it in the bike and resumed the trip towards home. We decided to get home and abbreviated our trip with the promise of returning next year and ride even more of the dirt trails. The ones on the way there, on the way back and while we’re there as well.

We made it safely back to River Falls and my Scrambler is now in the shop being attended to so we can leave by the end of the week. Hal feels the need to return home and I will ride with him as far as the Utah/Colorado border. He’ll go it alone back to the Northern California coast from there. I’ll return home and wait for the next adventure and call this one a huge success.

I’ll leave you with this short 30 second YouTube of our motorcycles in action.  In the meantime, stay tuned, as there are more adventures to come.

Peace to all

Memorial Day 2012

It's been 42 years and 3 months since I returned home from the American war in Vietnam. Not a day goes by that I don't have some kind of remembrance  from that experience. Good, bad or indifferent, I relive being there in some way shape or form. In November, when Veterans Day rolls around, I have strong thoughts as well as on Memorial Day, which is being celebrated this weekend.

There is a huge sale at Home Depot. Walmart is open, as are all the corporation stores. People work on holidays. They are not off at the lake, fishing. They are not free to attend the parade of guns and ammo that show our country's might. Makes me wonder about the propaganda films that we saw in the 1960's of what we called "Red China" and the USSR. Parades of tanks and soldiers in lock step, like Hitler's Nazis. How are our parades any different on Memorial Day?

They are different for different people. Some folks actually memorialize those that have served their country. They honor those that actually thought they were fighting for someone's freedom and not for a corporate czar to make money off the war effort. There are some that remember what it was like to face bullets and shrapnel and watch their Brothers and Sisters die in combat.

I'm one of the latter. I wish I could go back in time and stand up to the government that perpetuated the war and tell them, "No, I won't fight and kill for you any more".
But I can't. And time has passed. All I can do is remember those that have fallen before me either on the battlefield or from emotional and physical wounds that are the direct result of being a Warrior, a combat infantryman, a soldier. Someone in service to their country, their family and their community.

Enjoy your weekend. Pray for Peace and an end to war. As we Bless America, Bless the world. Pray that other nations put an end to war as well. Stop the killing.

I will leave you with an essay I wrote years ago. I post it pretty much every Memorial Day. This year will be no exception.

May Peace prevail on the Sacred Earth Mother

The Warrior

Veterans are Warriors, men and women who are trained to kill, for society. Men and women who have taken the life of another human being. Even those Veterans that did not see action in the form of combat signed up or were drafted and followed orders. They would have given their life if asked. They would kill if they thought, at any brief moment in the throes of war, that they had to. 

All soldiers, no matter what their military occupation is, are taught how to go to combat before learning any other skill or specialty. In basic training, these killing skills are taught to every soldier. Killing is the soldier warrior's job. The warrior is somehow stripped of the belief that life is too sacred to erase, then they are taught the details of exactly how to kill people. With a weapon, with their hands.

They are forced to practice it over and over again until it is automatic, regardless of how scared they may be. Even if their hearts are pounding or if they are scared senseless, these warriors can still load, fire, and erase the life of the human being identified as the enemy. They kill, if not for themselves, for the soldier next to them who is a trained killer like them. A Brother or Sister, and for the society that has required their services as a killer. 

Everyone who is trained to kill has lost something of themself and must find a way to control the imbalance that results. The military calls that control "self-discipline." Without it we would have millions of Timothy McVeigh's eliminating their perceived enemies with the lethal skills that they were trained for. These skills given to them with the approval of the rest of society. The military does not want nor allow this same “self discipline” to weigh in during the wartime activity. 

We demand the warrior be disciplined and control themselves but when they return we treat them terribly. For those who have taken a life in a war and dealt with death, this discipline is a life-long struggle that is never truly resolved. They see the dead and relive the killings in their dreams. The soldier who kills another soldier or civilian comes home and one day realizes that there is a family somewhere in the world, in their own home, lacking a cherished family member. There are children who no longer have a Father, Mother or Brother, Women without their husbands and husbands without their wives. No chance to fulfil the dream of growing old together. 

That soldier who took a life may look at their own children when they get home, perhaps even years later, hug that child, and think about another child whose daddy or mommy they killed. How easy it would be for his or her child to be the parentless one. That soldier, trying to become a human being again, will not know what to say to anyone on this earth about this feeling. They will wonder if anybody understands what they are feeling, or if anyone can. They may be able to share this feeling only with another Veteran, yet feel ashamed at reminding that Veteran of what he or she is also struggling to deal with. Worried that if he or she talks about it, they might be judged as bragging.

The real warrior is abandoned into silence. They fall upon the discipline that was introduced in them but they fall alone. Many Veterans forever fight this never-resolved battle. 

Listen to the Vietnam War Veterans. Listen to how they were received when they returned to this country. Listen to the Gulf War Vets that must fend for themselves as the very government that asks them to lay down their bodies vote down funding for proper and substantial treatment of their wounds. 

In the case of the returning Vietnam Veterans, some were spat upon. Others had to withstand an onslaught of name calling that included things like baby killer and murderer. Society does not know this agent of death that is a warrior. It does not possess the skills nor the knowledge to reintegrate these people into society. Society asked them to kill on its behalf, but does little to return the warrior to a rightful place as a caring, compassionate member of a family and community. 

They ask us to kill and teach us this skill, but not how to heal.

Can the community do anything to help with this return to so-called normal society? The Warrior Veteran needs to be brought back into the Circle of Life. How can they find spiritual peace and understanding from the community? Only if the circle of their community is a healing circle.

Does the community ever rent a room, invite the Veterans, feed and honor them and listen to their stories of the atrocities of war or the horrors of being the deliverer of death to another by accident or for survival? When do they hear about arms blown off a man who walked down a road not knowing mines were there? Who will listen to the warrior's scramble for words that describe an incoming napalm strike on a village? Who hears the break in their voices? 

These things happened. The blood and destruction has been seen by the Veteran. The community must acknowledge the sacrifice their Veteran was willing to give. Society and the community can not know and understand or postulate a reason for what has happened, for that same society and community allowed the war either by electing people into office or by sitting by and watching war upon war unfold without lifting a finger to stop it.

Who will sit and listen to the stories of these Veterans? Will the people of the community come forward and listen or will the Veteran be doomed to the darkness of a house where no one visits? Will the people lean down to say hello to the Veteran in the wheelchair whose legs are missing because they were blown off in a battle, or will they cross the street in avoidance?

Many Veterans that seem like they are of sound body suffer with the intrusive thoughts of having to experience death first hand and in many cases, by their own hand. They are also in darkness. A Veteran struggling with his thoughts as he tries to understand PTSD is forever and constantly bombarded by shame, guilt, depression, anger, confusion and loneliness.

This Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is grossly misunderstood by most people. Some even say things like, “Get a life” or “Get over it.” when they hear of a Veteran that asks for disability for the loss of control of his own life from the struggles with PTSD.

A warrior is a hunter with death and blood on their hands and real horror to relive in their dreams. They are the ignored and too often the wounded walking suicide-to-be. They are the men and women with visions that they cannot, but want to, leave behind. They constantly try to be sorry for their actions but fail because the destruction of their own heart will not allow it. The blackness is there, forever. 

The Warrior accepts the inevitable truth that they will live and die lonely as they struggle to be understood.

Think of these things the next time you see a Veteran. And remember, those who the Warrior fought because they were told they were the enemy are Warriors too. They and their families will suffer the same as “our side”. They also have PTSD. The Mothers and Fathers of those also cry at the loss of a loved one. Brothers and Sisters, Grandmothers and Grandfathers will miss them. We are all on the same side as far as issues with our Warriors.

The Native American communities have been stepping forward for many many years. They welcome back their Warriors. They have ceremonies and honoring Pow Wow’s for the Veterans. They are not glad there is war. But they realize this. The Veteran, drafted or enlisted, whether a regular Army soldier or a National Guard member who was deployed into war, was following orders because they took an oath. They were all willing to sacrifice their own life if need be. They accepted the pain and suffering that happens to them as a Warrior from witnessing the death and destruction firsthand. This is what is honored in the Veteran. Honor the Warrior, not the war.

After Vietnam, society had much confusion about the war. Let us not make the same errors in the way we treat our Veterans that are returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Let us make ammends to ALL Veterans from ALL eras, combat and non-combat. 

Honor the dead. Heal the wounded. Work for Peace and End All War

Do this often, not just this weekend. Stop judging others. Stop hating people for their different religious beliefs, sexual orientation, politics and Race. Follow the Golden Rule as this is how you want to be treated. Change one small trait or flaw in your life and work for peace amongst mankind. Do it for the children of the future.

Peace to all.