I wish that life came slowly. It seems like, instead of progressing continuously and linearly, life moves like at step-wise plot. Bam - you were born. Bam - you had your first day of class. Bam - you graduated high school. Everything would be much easier if the defining moments didn't happen so fast. I am in one for those defining moments. I am taking another chance, taking one small step for my life and one large decision for my future. I applied to three pharmacy schools this past December - the University of New Mexico, the University of Washington, and the University of Colorado at Denver (in Aurora). Fortunately, I got an interview at each school. So far, I've had one acceptance. I'm in a hotel room in Aurora, CO wondering what I want for the rest of my life. Which Pharm.D. program do I choose? Will I have to choose? How is the interview going to go tomorrow?
I miss home and while I nod to my past, I'm ready to begin my future.
S. Buterblog
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Doug: Loss
I stepped out into the cool morning air, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. My team followed me out and I narrowed my focus. One of them I know well, the other two are from Army and Air Force, and could be anyone. I had talked to them moments before, and had confidence in them. Their part was small, but if any member of the team failed, it would show. I had not had to impress upon them the importance of getting this right.
What seemed like the entire army battalion had formed up on the grass next to Clark Hall. They had finished PT early, and were ready. My brothers in the Navy and Marine Corps, covered with sweat and dirt, were rushing to do the same. I slowed my stride, giving them more time. Soon we were formed up as well, a line of four, a flag guarded by two young men and two young women, ready.
The Army Cadet took a deep breath and then called the command to attention. My eyes snapped forward and my posture straightened slightly. “Right Face! Forward March!”
In seconds we were below the flagpole. Our steps were not quite in time, but I could not expect those that did not drill to know how to march. The Cadet called a halt, and then, very suddenly, it was my turn.
“Inboard face.” I said, the command private to the color guard. The two in front of me about faced, so that we all faced towards the center. I broke formation and quickly untied the rope on the flagpole, called a halyard. My opposite number then broke ranks and assisted me in snapping the flag into position. We both came back to attention and I summoned my voice.
What seemed like the entire army battalion had formed up on the grass next to Clark Hall. They had finished PT early, and were ready. My brothers in the Navy and Marine Corps, covered with sweat and dirt, were rushing to do the same. I slowed my stride, giving them more time. Soon we were formed up as well, a line of four, a flag guarded by two young men and two young women, ready.
The Army Cadet took a deep breath and then called the command to attention. My eyes snapped forward and my posture straightened slightly. “Right Face! Forward March!”
In seconds we were below the flagpole. Our steps were not quite in time, but I could not expect those that did not drill to know how to march. The Cadet called a halt, and then, very suddenly, it was my turn.
“Inboard face.” I said, the command private to the color guard. The two in front of me about faced, so that we all faced towards the center. I broke formation and quickly untied the rope on the flagpole, called a halyard. My opposite number then broke ranks and assisted me in snapping the flag into position. We both came back to attention and I summoned my voice.
“ATTENTION TO COLORS!” Everyone on that field who had ever taken an oath came to attention, and the flag darted skyward.
I felt the rope through my fingers, coarse and wet. After what seemed like an eternity, the rope refused to pull, and the flag was at its apex. I nearly winced, but kept my composure. This was where the procedure changed. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered the flag. In my memory, it took forever, but I know it took mere seconds before it reached half mast. Tucking the rope to my side I came back to attention, saluted, cut, and gave the command. “CARRY ON!” The perfect formations broke, and after quickly tying off the halyard, my team and I about faced and marched back to our starting point, and then, only then, did I look at the woman whose son I had just symbolically laid to rest.
She was short, and plump, with deep laugh lines and a full face. Her hair was brown turning to grey, and I could tell that she was full of the best kind of love. She looked nothing like my mother, but was everything like my mother. Her eyes shined with tears, but her face was composed. I had a moment of insanity where I imagined my mother like this and then violently pushed the thought away, as though thinking it would somehow make it so.
Major Robertson moved to speak with her, and indicated that all the other Marines should come with him. I had to run upstairs for a moment to hand off my responsibility as officer of the day, but sprinted back down the stairs with my friend Carl.
She was still there, surrounded by men and a smattering of women in various shades of green and black. I was late, but caught the last few words she said before Major dismissed us. “Take care of yourselves.”
As I walked away I felt both an immense pride and immense sadness. I was so sorry that I had to be one of the hands that helped carry her son home, and yet was so proud that I had done it right. In the days since I had heard that a Marine in Afghanistan had died, and that his parents were University of Washington professors the war had come a little closer to home, a little more raw, a little more bitter. This last week has been the worst in that woman’s life, and still she came out to see us honor her son. She wasn’t bitter with us; she wasn’t angry that we took her son and put him in harm’s way. The only thing we wanted out of us was to “Take care of yourselves.”
This morning I walked home. I thought of all the men who had helped carry her son home. First his best friends in Afghanistan, people he had fought and bled and laughed and cried with. Then the air crew who flew his body from that place to the United States. Then the men who carried him from the plane to the place in Washington DC where all the bodies of the dead go for preparation. Then the men and women who prepared his body. Then the Marine who escorted him to his home in Washington. Then the Marines who carried his body to the grave he now resides in. And finally me. The not quite Marine who was randomly chosen to raise the flag on this day. To put the flag at half staff on this day. To honor his memory in front of his mother on this day. To carry him home.
I know that wherever there is a flag going up today that this same ceremony is taking place. I am not unique in remembering. I do not know this Marine but for his name. William Stacy, Sergeant of Marines. But I did have the honor and sadness of raising the flag of the country he gave his life for in front of his mother, and I will not forget that.
-MIDN 1/C Douglas Wood
USMC-R
“We'll dig his grave with a silver spade,
Walk him along John carry him along.
His shroud of the finest silk will be made,
Carry him to his burying ground.
We'll lower him down on a golden chain,
Walk him along John carry him along.
On every inch we'll carve his name,
Carry him to his burying ground.”
-Great Big Sea, “General Taylor”
I felt the rope through my fingers, coarse and wet. After what seemed like an eternity, the rope refused to pull, and the flag was at its apex. I nearly winced, but kept my composure. This was where the procedure changed. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered the flag. In my memory, it took forever, but I know it took mere seconds before it reached half mast. Tucking the rope to my side I came back to attention, saluted, cut, and gave the command. “CARRY ON!” The perfect formations broke, and after quickly tying off the halyard, my team and I about faced and marched back to our starting point, and then, only then, did I look at the woman whose son I had just symbolically laid to rest.
She was short, and plump, with deep laugh lines and a full face. Her hair was brown turning to grey, and I could tell that she was full of the best kind of love. She looked nothing like my mother, but was everything like my mother. Her eyes shined with tears, but her face was composed. I had a moment of insanity where I imagined my mother like this and then violently pushed the thought away, as though thinking it would somehow make it so.
Major Robertson moved to speak with her, and indicated that all the other Marines should come with him. I had to run upstairs for a moment to hand off my responsibility as officer of the day, but sprinted back down the stairs with my friend Carl.
She was still there, surrounded by men and a smattering of women in various shades of green and black. I was late, but caught the last few words she said before Major dismissed us. “Take care of yourselves.”
As I walked away I felt both an immense pride and immense sadness. I was so sorry that I had to be one of the hands that helped carry her son home, and yet was so proud that I had done it right. In the days since I had heard that a Marine in Afghanistan had died, and that his parents were University of Washington professors the war had come a little closer to home, a little more raw, a little more bitter. This last week has been the worst in that woman’s life, and still she came out to see us honor her son. She wasn’t bitter with us; she wasn’t angry that we took her son and put him in harm’s way. The only thing we wanted out of us was to “Take care of yourselves.”
This morning I walked home. I thought of all the men who had helped carry her son home. First his best friends in Afghanistan, people he had fought and bled and laughed and cried with. Then the air crew who flew his body from that place to the United States. Then the men who carried him from the plane to the place in Washington DC where all the bodies of the dead go for preparation. Then the men and women who prepared his body. Then the Marine who escorted him to his home in Washington. Then the Marines who carried his body to the grave he now resides in. And finally me. The not quite Marine who was randomly chosen to raise the flag on this day. To put the flag at half staff on this day. To honor his memory in front of his mother on this day. To carry him home.
I know that wherever there is a flag going up today that this same ceremony is taking place. I am not unique in remembering. I do not know this Marine but for his name. William Stacy, Sergeant of Marines. But I did have the honor and sadness of raising the flag of the country he gave his life for in front of his mother, and I will not forget that.
-MIDN 1/C Douglas Wood
USMC-R
“We'll dig his grave with a silver spade,
Walk him along John carry him along.
His shroud of the finest silk will be made,
Carry him to his burying ground.
We'll lower him down on a golden chain,
Walk him along John carry him along.
On every inch we'll carve his name,
Carry him to his burying ground.”
-Great Big Sea, “General Taylor”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)