Monday, May 30, 2016

I know I’m suppose to put up a picture of some ceremony from some where depicting the military member, the flag of these United States and row upon row of white head stones.

I have a problem with all of that.

It’s been three days of constant drumming of those types of scenes. It doesn’t really seem real sometimes at the programing coming across the airways, the TV. . .  and, yes, sometimes from the Vets themselves.

It isn’t that one doesn’t remember a great many things; some that people consider bad. Quite probably those thoughts and memories are true – if not, anymore, entirely accurate.

It is becoming difficult to visualize a face, gone, not forgotten, but gone. More real are things done with the gone. A touch, an event, a shared experience.

Those things remain; and in that way the gone are present, real, living.

So, quiet time of contemplation; perhaps casual conversation, a shared beer, or meal. Not necessarily the pomp and ceremony so dearly entrenched in the fabric of the American “Day of Remembrance” is more apropos than guns fired without aim and the over stylized and overly exaggerated slow respect of gloved and spit shined uniforms of honor this unit or that performer bunch.

After all the deaths of the gone was a micro-second of explosive force or the dull thwak of a bullet hitting flesh, and in some cases the silent slipping beneath the waves, weighted down by deemed necessary gear to which the unit didn’t really need – after all the man, the gun and the bullets were about all that really mattered in the end.

So it isn’t the hoopla, nor the ceremony, the noise and blaring horns and drums. It’s the quiet and softly spoken “Hey. Remember . . .”.


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey 

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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