For What It's Worth

I have been asked a couple of times, why “For What It’s Worth” as a blog title? So, I thought I might take a moment to explain and also give a few insights into some of the symbology I use within it.

First, every blog must have a title or name. It should be something catchy, memorable, and provide an idea of the content. Based on the purpose of my blog, I wanted to share “my thoughts on current events and items of interest to me”. I did not want anything like “My Two Cents” or any cute variation, such as “.02” or “2¢” or even “$0.02”. Also, I did not want my name or moniker to appear in the title, such as “Eddy’s Views On…” or “A Marine’s Take”. I did consider for a while naming it “A Redneck Marine’s Guide To Life, Love, and Liberals”. I thought I might attract the wrong crowd, so I decided against it.

After a bit of thinking, I remembered a phrase my Dad used to say when he wanted to voice his opinion, normally in an unsolicited manner. He would say, “If it means anything,” then add his comment. People tended to listen when my Dad “added his .02”. At times, Dad must have felt like E. F. Hutton. If you do not recognize the name, then you probably need to read my blog so I can help fill your brain housing group with useful information. To that end, E. F. Hutton was a brokerage powerhouse. Commercials and advertisements had the phrase, “When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen”. In other words—also an idea for a blog title—produce something that people will stop what they are doing and “listen to what you have to say” or, more literally, in this case, read what I have to write.

"For What It's Worth" cover in 1967.

While kicking around a few ideas, I was listening to a Spotify station playing music from the '60s and '70s. I heard a song by Buffalo Springfield, a Folk-Rock band. Buffalo Springfield had several well-known musicians. Richie Furay, who went on to form the Country-Rock band Poco. Stephen Stills and Neil Young would get together with David Crosby and Graham Nash to form Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Jim Messina would later partner with Kenny Loggins, forming Loggins and Messina, and Jim Fielder moved on to Blood, Sweat, & Tears. Needless to say, there was a lot of talent in this group.

In the mid-60s, they wrote and recorded a protest song that was untitled. When Stills gave it to the band’s agent, he said, “I have this song here, for what it’s worth, if you want it”. Based on the phrasing of the sentence, the agent believed the title to be “For What It’s Worth”. They cut it as the A-side to a single. For those inquiring minds, the B-side was “Do I Have to Come Right Out and Say It?”. However, the song title of the A-side song is nowhere in the lyrics of the song. You might assume the protest song was about the Vietnam War, which was just getting in high gear in 1967. Well, you would be wrong. While it is a protest song, it is not about war. If you want to learn about this, do a little research. It won’t hurt.

When I heard the song, I recognized it and I immediately knew this was my blog title. The band had something to say, “Hey what’s that sound?” it got everyone’s attention. Like E. F. Hutton, people stopped and listened. Having decided on my blog title, I was going to do something different. Every individual post or entry I publish to my blog will have the title of that post appearing somewhere in the text.

Except for “The World Is Black, The World is White” published on 24 AUG 13, the blog title For What It’s Worth, and the first letter in each post is purple. I chose not to use any color in the aforementioned post because it is about race relations between Blacks and Whites. The post is all black and white except when referencing bloodshed and violence. Here, I use red in an attempt to illustrate that we may have different skin colors, but we all bleed red. Back to the reason for using purple.

Purple is my favorite color. It is the color of royalty. However, that is not why I chose it. I have a wonderful, sweet friend whose favorite poem is “When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple” by Jenny Joseph. She encouraged me to write years ago. She reminded me of my gift and that I need to share it with the world. This is my homage to her; my way of recognizing her impact on and importance in my life. To this person, PEAS.😉

Because of my health, my writing is sporadic. Trying to think in a coherent manner when all you want to do is yell, makes it difficult to capture your thoughts. This situation is compounded by the dulling effect of pain meds. Regardless, I try to write something each week. Most of what I write is never published; never read by anyone but me.

I write a lot of political posts or entries, but have a fair amount of military stories as well. I have tried to tag or label each published post with pertinent identifiers to aid readers in finding a post or something to read. Posts that are not political, historical, or about the military are what I call “Fun Zone”. These are posts, much like this one, that allow the reader to escape reality for a moment and mentally check out. Maybe a ten-minute break while having a cup of coffee. Fun Zone posts include “Cheers!”, “Battle of Ed’s Shed”, “Where Dreams Come True”, “LabCorp Comedy Club”, etc. Just use the drop-down list on the top left, “All Labels.”

If you have read this far, I hope by now you are interested enough to read some of my other posts. If you like it, disagree with it, or just have something to say, please let me know. Don’t be surprised if you come across some EDDYoms (idioms). I have made several, such as NERDvana—a mental or emotional state of Utopian bliss as a result of doing anything “nerdy”; Palate Party—a tasty bite of food that is a “taste bud treat”; Premature Exclamation—being in such a hurry to reply, you fail to fully compose your idea before you speak or hit Send/Enter; Electronic Erection—sort of self-explanatory, but any form of excitement brought about by electronic gadgets. To clarify, it is far short of NERDvana.

Who knows, you might read something here and find yourself in a conversation later in the day beginning with, For What It’s Worth…..

It's A Waffle House Christmas

Waffle House logo.

I went to Waffle House on Christmas Eve morning. I was hungry and ready to strap the feed bag on. A few employees holler'd 'GaMornin'—that is a one-word Southern contraction of 'Good Morning' as I made my way to a booth listening to "Christmas in Dixie" by the boys from Ft. Payne. The windows were fogged and had condensation running in rivulets because of the temperature differential. It was unseasonably warm with the temperature over 65 degrees F at 0600, with a slight drizzle. Inside, well, it was hog-killing time. Perhaps, they wanted to make it feel "a lot like Christmas". You could hang meat in there and not worry about spoilage. To be blunt, it was a bit nippy. I suddenly became self-conscious and felt like a girl wearing a white bathing suit stepping out of cold water, only it was a rain-dampened white Guy Harvey t-shirt in a meat locker.

In addition to the temperature, I noticed I was customer number three. Not too many people hankering for the "Steak-n-Eggs, $7.99 Special". The girl waiting on me was in her mid-30s and, for clarity purposes, henceforth referred to as 'Smitten 1'. After exchanging a few pleasantries, she asked, "Are you on the radio?" I inferred she was asking if I was a radio personality and secretly hoped she did not ask because she thought I had the perfect face (and body) for radio. I clarified by asking, "As in a DJ?" She shook her head in affirmation. I told her no. She then said, "You have the BEST voice. It's nice and deep, and whew!" She was now fanning her face. Red streaks and blotches were appearing on her neck. Perhaps she was standing too close to the grill. No. That doesn't make sense; the grill was empty. She looked too young for hot flashes. Having eliminated ambient temperature, I concluded she enjoyed the quality of my voice. Or, needed extra tip money to buy Christmas gifts.

To prevent any sort of embarrassment, I gave her a smile and a wink along with my order. For some reason, my voice is now an octave deeper than Barry White’s and a bit more velvety than an Elvis Presley painting leaning against a pink Cadillac at a roadside flea market in South Georgia between a boiled peanuts vendor and a '70s Hippie selling "Keep On Trucking" t-shirts. She moved to the 'mark' just right of the grill, called out my order, then brought my black coffee and water. After thanking her, she rejoins her female coworkers. I notice them looking towards me, causing me to cross my arms over my chest. Why did I wear white?

Soon, my order is up, and she places it in front of me. A coworker, let's call her 'Smitten 2', refills my coffee and asks, "Hun, can I get you anything else?" "No, thank you." Smitten 2 asks how my holiday is going and what I have planned. After a few more questions, she exclaims, "You DO have a sexy voice."

Me: "Oh, you are too kind. It is just my voice."

Smitten 2: "No. I am serious. When Smitten 1 told us, I had to come over and see for myself." I am sure she meant "hear" instead of "see". Anyway, I exhaled a sigh of relief realizing they weren't talking about my chestal region.

Me: "What makes a voice sexy?"

Smitten 1: "The way it sounds."—[My bad. I should not have asked such a difficult question.]—"I could listen to you talk all day."

Smitten 2: "Please say my name-just once." As she said this, she thrust her chestal region towards me, presumably to allow me to read her name tag. For fear I might see signs of her being cold, I chose to look her in the eye. I felt it only polite to do what she asked, so I said, "My name-just once." With this, both Smittens 1 and 2 started laughing and walked away.

While finishing my breakfast, I smiled, thinking something about my old, broken body--albeit, nothing external--was attractive to a couple of girls. I was not interested in reciprocating their flirtations. I was tired, and the neuropathic pain down my legs was demanding my attention. Regardless, it was flattering and made me think of the number of times women had the reverse experience. Guys flirting with them. Complimenting them. Perhaps even ogling. This exchange was nowhere near any of those. Just two girls complimenting my voice.

Album Cover "It's A Waffle House Christmas", 2001.

Their compliments, while concealed in flirtatious banter, lifted my spirits. For a moment, I did not feel the pain in my back and down my legs. I stood without my usual deep breath and made my way to the cash register, paid my bill, leaving a 35% tip. For the Christmas gifts. I picked up my cell phone, and wished all a Merry Christmas as another song was playing, "It's A Waffle House Christmas". With a chuckle in my throat and a smile on my face, I walked to the door with a bit more pride in my stride, a newfound pep in my step, my head held high, and my chest puffed out. I opened the door to allow a couple to enter. She looked at me, then cast a sidelong glance at her husband, remarking, "It must be cold in here".

Why did I wear white?

Big BANG!

Well, this week went out with a "Big Bang". We all witnessed and engaged in coitus.

"The Big Bang Theory"? Oh, no. Well, yes. Amy has longed for the moment when Sheldon's "force awakens". Shamy finally decided to go "where no man has gone before". They forego Star Wars worldwide release for foreplay and a release of their own.

While the world was distracted by the new Star Trek movie--Star Wars, what's the difference? New Speaker Paul Ryan led a Republican-controlled House and Senate to pass the $1.1 TRILLION Omnibus Spending Bill.

Amy thoroughly enjoyed Sheldon's birthday genitals. For the most part, "experiencing coitus" is pleasurable. Except when it is forced upon you by a trusted friend. Yeah, we were screwed. I believe reciprocity is in order. Ryan and the other 315 House members plus the 65 Senators that voted for this Bill should have a lightsaber inserted deep into their black holes.

That is a "Big BANG!" I could get behind

My Dad Can Fix Anything

Growing up with two younger brothers, we broke a lot of things around the house. We did not worry too much because we believed our Dad could fix whatever we brought to him. Dad did his best to repair or "fix" them. One time, Dad was repairing a broken bicycle frame that involved welding. He explained how the weld, when done correctly, is actually stronger than the parent metal.

Stock Photo. Welding a bicycle frame.

I was too young to understand, but I simply believed Dad.

It was not until my junior year of college in a "Property of Materials" class, I learned why and how this is true. Without being too technical, the weld material has different properties yielding greater tensile strength, shear strength, and enthalpy of fusion (heat) melts the materials and “fuses” them together. The heat also anneals the surrounding parent metal, making it stronger too.

This is a perfect example of how God, our Father, heals. This past week I could not escape reading of people writing of broken trust, broken hearts, and even broken bodies, due to illness or injury. So many people needing some form of healing or restoration in their life.

God tells us in Jeremiah 30:17, “But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds.” The Hebrew word for heal means to “repair thoroughly…to make whole”; and restore means to “make perfect”. In 1 Peter 5:10, we are promised, “But the God of all grace…will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast.” I prefer the way The Living Bible phrases this verse. “…He personally will come and pick you up, and set you firmly in place, and make you stronger than ever.”

Whatever you have that is broken, just believe and take it to God, because My Dad Can Fix Anything.

Strongs Definitions

Heal -  אֲרוּכָה 724 arukah

Greek Lexicon

Restore - 2675 καταρτίσει katartisei

Strong - 4741στηρίξει stērixei

Firm - 4599 σθενώσει sthenōsei

Steadfast - 2311 θεμελιώσει themeliōsei

"What marvelous love the Father has extended to us! Just look at it—we’re called children of God! That’s who we really are."   –1 John 3:1 (MSG)

Phrogs Phinal Phlight

CH-46 Helo-Casting US Marines.

On 01 AUG 2015, the United States Marine Corps ended its yearlong transition and bid “pharewell” to one of the most storied and historic airframes in all of USN/USMC aviation. The CH-46, “Sea Knight” known affectionately as the “Phrog” "phlew" its last official flight. The Phrogs Phinal Phlight. In a retirement ceremony, a Sea Knight of the Reserve Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron (HMM) 744 flew its last hop to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Chantilly, VA, where it will remain on loan from the National Museum of the Marine Corps.

Marines rappelling from CH-46.

In another AUG, back in 1961, I entered into this world. The following AUG (1962), the Phrog took its first flight. It entered service in 1964. The 46 has served aboard LHA/LST/LPD and deployed to FOBs in every conflict since Vietnam. Last year, Phrogs flew their last combat missions and returned to CONUS. Many confuse the 46 with the much larger US Army CH-47, also a tandem rotor helicopter, or “banana” helo. Because of its counter tandem rotors, there is no need for a tail rotor, and it can land on ice without sliding. Skilled pilots can land the “ass-end” of the Phrog on a building or mountain while keeping the forward part of the helo in a hover.

For the past 25 years, most of the men and women who piloted/crewed the helo had not even been born when the last helo rolled off the production line. The last 46 entered service in 1971. During its nine years of production, 524 units entered service in USN/USMC. The most current model is the 46F.

Marines perform Static Line Jump from CH-46.

Marines using SPIE under CH-46.

Marines "roping" from CH-46.

During its service life, the 46 supported several mission types. From disaster aid and relief to humanitarian operations to search and rescue, to the basics of movement of supplies, transporting personnel, and vertical replenishment (VERTREP). It also served in the most solemn of roles by removing the wounded and dead from the battlefield. During my time in USMC, I jumped/rappelled/roped/cast/SPIE’d out of UH-1s, CH-46s, and CH-53s. Because of the size of Force Recon teams, we normally used Hueys (UH-1) and 46s for our training missions. Typically, the 46 was crewed by a pilot, co-pilot, and crew chief/gunner, allowing for 22 combat-loaded Marines. I have made all types of static line jumps from a 46; “Hollywood” (no equipment), Equipment, Day, and Night. I have helo-cast into water (pilot travels at a “20 and 20”—twenty feet above the lowest point between crests, and 20 knots—we then push our Zodiac out the

CH-46 v CH-47 Profile View.

CH-46 v CH-47 Front View.

CH-46 v CH-47 Bottom View

lowered the ramp, then followed after) and performed wet recoveries (driving Zodiac into a helo that is hovering with ramp awash); rappelled from both the “hell hole” and off the ramp; “roped” (fast-rope) insertion, and SPIE’d (Special Patrol Insertion-Extraction). This is probably my favorite. You attach yourself to a rope that is affixed to the helo and you hang underneath while in flight, traveling up to 10 miles at 130 knots. I have a lot of fond memories of the Phrog.

Like old Marines, even equipment must leave active service and pass the torch to someone or something else. The 46, replaced is the dual tilt-rotor MV-22 Osprey. Much has been said about this airframe, but I think she will prove to be a force multiplier and will save a lot of Marines.

Author. 1987 at 29 Palms.
About to SPIE insert under CH-46.

I, like the 46, represent the Marine Corps' past. Our time in service is done. The current Devil Dogs and MV-22 represent the Marine Corps' future. To these Marines, I charge you to take care of your Marines, and always in ALL Ways, Charlie Mike.

Bravo Zulu Phrogs. May you always have Phair Winds and Phollowing Seas. (I could do this Phorever).

I shall remain, Semper Fidelis.

Marines Helo-Cast from CH-46.

LabCorp Comedy Club

This morning I had to have blood drawn for some labs. I joined three ladies in the waiting room. There were many open seats, but I chose the row with only two seats. It was closer to the door, and there was a woman in her late 30s in the other chair. That had no bearing on my decision.😉 However, this is not about her. Instead, it is about the Lady, in her mid-60s. Let's call her Miss WTH. She was explaining to the other women how bad Obamacare was, and they shook their heads in agreement, much like a bobblehead doll on the dash of an F-250 Fx4 muddin' in the woods. She then shifted gears and started with how Obama was going to stop the 2016 election. "He is using all these racial shootings to stir up 'the blacks' and will enact 'The' Martial Law. He will use this to confiscate all the guns." The truck must have stopped because their heads were no longer bobbing.

She explained Obama was going to use Jade Helm as a way to get people used to seeing the military in their city. Okay, this goes on and I am waiting for my 0845 appointment. I interrupted asking where she was getting her information, acting like I had never heard such. She replied, "The internet. Go to 'the' YouTube."

Other comments included (1) Obama has a clone--you know they have that technology--and if you take him out, his clone will take over. (2) Less than 1% of the world controls all world events--"them Bilderbergs". They control the world. "Well, I’ll be." I said just loud enough for the lady--call her Miss America--beside me to hear, "I thought they were a nice store where you could take your kids and build-a-bear. I'll be." Miss America laughed.

I then chimed in, saying, "I think they are actually Reptilians from Rigel 7."  Miss America pinched my arm and winked at me. Miss WTH just looked at me like I was some conspiracy kook. How ironic.

Miss WTH's phone started ringing while two black families entered. Miss WTH announces that it is her sister in Atlanta and had to answer. She explains she is having blood work--"but nothing serious". (Miss Third Lady was then called back and had a look of both relief for herself and pity for us that remained.) Miss WTH asked her sister if she had heard of the shooting, then asked all of us the same. Without waiting for replies, Miss WTH explained she visited that very church years ago and probably sat in what today is a blood-stained pew. Incidentally, we could also hear her sister from Atlanta because of the volume. For a while, I thought we were on a conference call. She mostly said "Nooo" and "I'll be". Miss WTH then told her sister how her 66th birthday went.

"'My man' was angry. I did not get to the restaurant until 6:15. We had planned to meet at 5:30, but I was running late."--"How many dates 'had' you been on with him?" her Atlanta sister inquired.--"This would have been our third. He told me he had to leave and apologized, then got up and left. I was appalled at his behavior. Why would he do that to me? He did not give a single reason. I was talking to my daughter at 10 while watching the news, and she was asking about the date. I told her, no dinner, no card, no present, and the next thing I know she showed up with a flower she picked from her garden and a tin of cookies".

A black lady sitting beside Miss WTH was directly across from me. She was smiling at me while rolling her eyes and shaking her head. The collective waiting room looked as if all were doing their best to contain their laughter. One fart and the laughter would have sounded like a Jerry Seinfeld joke at a comedy club on Saturday night.

The door opened, EDDY GILLEY? -- "That's me!" I have not sprung to my feet that fast since one of my German Shepherds placed his cold nose on my bare butt. Once standing, Miss America mouthed "I hate you". Might I add--and this is important--Miss America has cerulean blue eyes, red lipstick, and her black sunglasses were perched upon her stylish blonde hair. She wore a light blue sleeveless scalloped neck shirt, white shorts, and tan leather thong sandals. Her nicely pedicured toenails were accentuated by red nail polish, and for the record, her fingernails were real and French-tipped. Anyway, Miss America was a bit envious of my winning the lottery, I mean, being called back to get stuck with a HUGE needle. I placed my hand across my heart and feigned a look of disbelief.

Jerry Seinfeld.

I turned to Miss WTH and said, "Excuse me. Ma'am, I do not mean to interrupt. I just wanted to wish you a belated Happy Birthday and offer my apologies for the events you described. I agree, it is hard for me to think of a single reason why your man would not want to spend an evening with you."

Someone must have farted as I turned to go because the room erupted in laughter.

Now I know how Jerry Seinfeld feels on a Saturday night at the (LabCorp) Comedy Club.

National Donut Day

Whether you spell it Doughnut or Donut, the first Friday in June is the day set aside to honor these sinfully delectable, delightful diet busters. I prefer ‘donut’ by taking the “ugh” out of something so sweet. This Friday, 05 JUN 2015 marks the 77^th annual “official” National Donut Day, the first occurring on 07 JUN 1938.

Milton Quality Bakery Donuts

It was on this day that a young US Army doctor, Morgan Pett, stopped at a local bakery to purchase 8 dozen donuts to distribute to patients at a military hospital. One of the patients was Lieutenant General Samuel Geary, who was so moved by the act of kindness, he wanted to fund a program that would provide a free donut to every serviceman. The Salvation Army, having provided donuts to our fighting men in Europe in World War I from their “huts”, quickly joined the cause.

WWI Poster

During WWI, our fighting men longed for something that was freshly baked such as breads and rolls. Something fresh and sweet was even better. The fighting men also enjoyed the “sweet” young ladies serving the desserts in the “donut huts”. These ladies were affectingly known as “Donut Dollies”. In WWII, the ladies of the American Red Cross also distributed donuts and they too were lovingly called Donut Dollies.

Everyone enjoys biting into a soft, warm donut. Whether it is the familiar round (toroidal-shaped) or filled (injected with cream, custard, or fruit preserves), we all know a good donut when we bite into one. I have eaten at all the national chains—Krispy Kreme, Dunkin’ Donuts, and even Spudnuts (made with potato flour) and several local bakeries from the East to the West Coast but none compare to Milton, Florida’s own Milton Quality Bakery.

Dropping by the bakery on the way to school, no matter how late I might be, was always worth it. Cheese Danish, Boston Crème, Lemon filled…ummmm, tasting these treats was a party for the palate. Milton Quality Bakery (MQB) set the standard for all pastries. I have many wonderful memories from high school, birthdays, to introducing MQB to my children. Those who grew up or lived in Milton and then moved away always make it a priority to stop in to get a donut. Whenever NW Florida friends visit me in North Alabama, they ask for my donut order and bring it to me. One of my first stops and definitely my last when I visit Milton is always MQB.

Kenneth Norman "Mitch" Michener
09 FEB 45 - 03 OCT 14

For many Milton and Santa Rosa County residents, MQB is a fixture. It has been in the same location as far back as I can remember. Another fixture was co-owner Kenneth “Mitch” Michener. After a tour in the US Navy, he remained in Milton to marry a sweet, pretty young girl, Frances Malone. Mitch joined the family business and was our real-life “Fred the Baker”. On many a late night, we would be on our way home while Mitch would be leaving his home because it was “time to make the donuts”. Mitch loved fast cars. He was known to all the young guys, kind of like a modern-day James Dean bad boy. I am sure some of Milton’s Finest would have preferred he not drive so fast, but he could always say he was late getting to the bakery. We all know of the affinity to donuts that LEOs have.

Sadly, this National Donut Day is the first without Mitch. He passed last October. While there are no words to lessen the family’s pain of loss, I hope they take some comfort in the knowledge many of us think of him whenever we bite into one of their donuts. They are simply the best donuts I have ever eaten.

LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC

There seems to be a common thread weaving together the US military and donuts. From WWI through WWII to Mitch serving in the US Navy and yours truly, a US Marine, donuts are ever-present. With that in mind, I leave you with a funny anecdote from Vietnam. In SEP 1969, LtCol Orson Swindel, USMC, was a “guest” at a North Vietnamese POW camp. LtCol Swindel was piloting his F-8E Crusader on Veterans Day, 11 NOV 66, when he was shot down. He would be shuffled between various POW camps, including the infamous Hanoi Hilton, in which he shared a cell with John McCain, and the horrendous Son Tay camp. You might remember the failed rescue attempt at this prison camp. Anyway, in OCT 1969, Swindel's interrogator was making fun of and belittling the USA and how it was a young country without many traditions or holidays. Swindel, ever the Marine, was not willing to let the enemy win any battle, even if it was about holidays. He knew the Marine Corps' birthday was in a few weeks (10 NOV) and wanted to celebrate it, but could not tip his hand. Instead, he made up ‘National Donut Day’ (unofficial), a day all Americans dress up in festive attire, schools are let out, businesses are closed, and all Americans eat at least one donut. He continued to spin the yarn, explaining that donuts are similar to the French “sweet bread” (the French had a long history in Vietnam, so the Vietnamese were familiar with the dessert). He got the other POWs involved to continue the ruse with the guards.

Milton Quality Bakery | Milton, FL

As the day drew near, no one knew what would happen. If the ruse was discovered, the POWs could be beaten or worse. Finally, the day arrived. On the 194^th Marine Corps Birthday, and the day before Veterans Day, the POW camp known for its harsh conditions with little food, served the American servicemen “donuts”. A Marine-led Pastry Mission was successful against the Vietnamese captors. For one day, at least one meal, POWs had a taste from home, much like the American fighting men half a century earlier in European trenches of WWI.

So on this “official” National Donut Day, I hope you enjoy your favorite fried flour treat and reflect back on memories you shared with friends eating them, our military men and women, and more importantly, the people who made and served them, like the Donut Dollies and Mitch and Frances Michener. I just wish I were close enough to Milton to stop in MQB for a Boston Crème and perhaps hear the roar of Mitch starting one of his hot rods.

Note: For additional information on LtCol Swindel, please visit:
Interview by Gene Pell's show "Veterans Chronicles" on Radio America (audio)

I'll Fix You Right Up

Rufus "Doc" Thames, Jr., MD

Growing up in Milton, living “way out in the Country” with two younger brothers provided me with ample opportunities to injure myself. Most times we just “rubbed some dirt on it” and “walked it off”, but there were other times we had to seek ‘professional’ medical attention. From the time I could remember until moving away from Milton after graduating from Pensacola State College (then PJC) to finish my education, I saw three doctors: Dr. E. V. Sutton, Dr. H. M. (Max) Meredith, and Dr. Rufus Thames, Jr. I was a patient of only the first two. It was a chance meeting that Dr. Thames treated me. More on that later.

Shortly after graduating with my fellow Class of ’79 MHS Panthers in MAY, I started working for Boo Weekley’s daddy, Tom. Tom purchased the Milton location of Fortune’s Rexall Drugs from Ed Fortune. For many years the store was located in Gateway Plaza (beside Waffle House) before moving to the Berryhill Road location in the 1980s. I was originally hired to work the cash register, stock shelves, sweep, etc. That was not enough for me. I soon was checking in orders for sundries and OTC medications. Better, but not where I wanted to be. I wanted to work alongside Tom. He allowed me to do so and I soon learned to read prescriptions, pull the meds, type the labels (yes on a typewriter), and basically do everything required to work alongside a pharmacist. It was a wonderful experience and learned a lot while working there. But before all this happened, I had a lot of learning to do.

One of the first things every employee in the store learned was to answer the telephone: “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I HELP you?” If it was a doctor’s office, we immediately “hollered” to Tom so he knew to pick up the phone. Normally, nurses call in prescriptions or inquire about a patient’s prescription history. That is, all but Dr. Rufus “Doc” Thames, Jr. He preferred to do this himself. Sometime within the first week or so, I answered the phone, “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I help YOU?”—I was a fast learner—I heard what can only be described as a loud vocalization of a man that could not utter any words in any known language. It sounded like Uh-huhhhh. Say this aloud to yourself, as if you are agreeing with something someone told you in conversation, but hold on to that “h”. Go ahead. We will wait. Got the sound in your head? That is all I heard so I once again replied, in a somewhat more professional voice attempting to express authority, “This is Fortune’s Drugs, HOW.MAY.I.HELP.YOU?” The reply was the same single grunt I heard earlier, but a bit more emphatic. I am now lost. I was not taught this in training. What if this was a mental patient—what are the protocols for talking someone down? What if it was a patient suffering an “adverse drug reaction” and I hung up on them, could the store be held liable? I then continued trying to explain this was a business and attempted to develop some common communication skills. Perhaps monosyllabic words were necessary. It was then I heard Tom start hollering, “That’s Doc Thames! That’s Doc Thames!” as he dropped what he was doing to pick up the phone. You might have noticed we did a lot of hollering. Hollering pronounced hollerin’ (drop the ‘g’) was acceptable when trying to communicate from front to rear of the store. It is different from “yelling”, pronounced yellin’. Yelling is when you increase your volume and are shouting at someone while engaged in an angry conversation. For example, “Mom holler’d for us kids to come in. When we showed up late, she yell’d at us for not coming when she holler’d”.

Tom attempted to explain that I was new, still learning and that it would never happen again. This he said while looking down at me from his perch in the pharmacy above the store level. Most of us are old enough to remember when “drug stores” had a compartmentalized pharmacy area that was elevated two or three feet from floor level. This was to instill trust (fear?) in what the pharmacist told you. They were authoritative and were in a position superior to you. They were “above” you and you must reach “up” to take the medicine they were handing “down” to you. Kind of like when Moses had to reach “up” to take the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments God was handing “down" to man.

After the call, Tom explained Doc Thames always calls in his own prescriptions and he only says, “Uh-huhhhh”. I learned to understand his signature single-word greeting rather quickly. Again, I am a fast learner. I also soon learned to read prescriptions (scripts) and was taking calls from doctors’ offices. One day the phone rang, and after my now professional yet congenial greeting of “Fortune’s Drugs, how may I ASSIST YOU?” I received the unmistakable greeting from Doc Thames. I quickly explained I could take the script. Without any pause, he asked: “Son, do you hunt?” –Yes sir.—“Do you take a shot if you cannot make sure the area beyond the deer is clear?”—No sir.—“If you do not have a clear shot but still think you can kill the deer, do you take the shot?”—No sir.—“Do you understand why I am asking you these questions?”—Yes sir. “Why?”—You want to make sure I understand the importance of taking a prescription correctly and not try to do so just to prove I can. I must be 100% confident my actions will not endanger anyone. In other words, Doc Thames was making sure I had no doubt in my mind about taking this script. I am not sure a teenager in a drug store could take the Hippocratic Oath, but I certainly understood the “Primum non nocere” portion and he wanted to make sure he fulfilled the “First, do no harm” clause of the oath. Satisfied I could handle it, he then rattled off the script. I am not sure if I jumped for joy, but there was a smile on Tom’s face when I turned to face him. He took the scripts from my hand and then compared them to his. He was listening in on the conversation. I guess he too wanted to “Primum non nocere”.

Sometime later, Tom had me take something to Doc Thames at his office. I was walking with a pronounced limp because I had twisted my ankle. It was swollen and all shades of colors in the G BIV portion of ROY’s name. At the time my normal doc was Max Meredith and could have seen him, all I had to do was walk in the back door and Sharon (his RN) would have put me in a room. Dr. Thames told me to “sit down in this chair and I’ll fix you right up”. He untied my shoe, pulled off my sock then examined my ankle and foot. He wrapped it in an elastic bandage and told me to take it easy. If it was not any better in 10 days, come back. He had a room full of patients, but he took the time to tend to my ankle. On the way back to the drug store I remembered meeting Doc Thames on New Year’s Eve 1978. His son Ricky hosted a party on their property and we would gather around a huge bonfire. We listened to music, told lies to each other, and tried to find a girl to kiss at midnight. While counting down the minutes, Doc Thames walked up and asked how we were all doing. He was just coming home. He hung out with us for a bit and told us all to be careful.

A year or so later, Fortune’s Drugs won the contract for providing prescription and OTC medications to the inmates at Santa Rosa County Sheriff's Office (SRCSO) jail. I met Doc Thames on SAT mornings at the jail. I sat beside him as he examined the patient; he recorded his own notes and rattled off the scripts. I wrote the scripts on Fortune’s Drugs prescription pads then took them back to the pharmacy and once filled, delivered the prescriptions back to SRCSO jail later that day. Between patients, we would have a few moments to talk. He always encouraged me to stay in school. No matter what I do, enjoy it. Asked if I had a girlfriend and whether I was treating her right. Asked how my tennis playing was going and how many times I had beaten Dr. Matthews. He always talked about making my time count. One of his many pearls of wisdom, one I will never forget, “it’s just as easy to ask a pretty girl out as it is an ugly girl”. So true.

Rufus Thames, MD 19 NOV 26 - 20 APR 90

Working in the drug store afforded me many opportunities. I was able to learn a lot about medicine, being responsible for opening/closing a business, and generally matured a lot. It also afforded me the opportunity to meet a lot of wonderful people, some of them the pillars of the community from judges to school board members, and some on the opposite end of the social spectrum. I learned to look past their circumstances and see them as people. I also heard countless stories about Doc Thames. Regardless of the social stratum, tax bracket, or even which side of the river you lived, everyone had a kind word to say about Doc Thames. He was always just a phone call away. Whether they saw him at his office in the middle of the night or at the ER, he did what was necessary to treat them. For payment, he took either a few bills of crumpled, sweat-laden cash, a post-dated check, a pot o’ collards, a basket o’ chicken, or even a bushel of fresh corn. He was not a physician for the money or social standing. He did it because he cared about the people, regardless of their situation. When he looked at my ankle, I was a bit uncomfortable. Here was a grown man kneeling before me, taking off my sock and shoe. I was nobody; a teenage boy. The whole event sort of had a “foot washing” vibe to it. The entire point of washing another’s feet is servitude. Doc Thames was a servant. He took care of his fellow man. He was a man larger than life. He was a just man. He was a good man. Many around Milton only have to look at family portraits to see their “memories”. He delivered many babies and in so doing, gave those families many loving memories. Most of my memories were made sitting beside him, watching him in his element, even if the exam room was a small room at the county jail. Each of us with our own spit cup, passing the time while seeing one patient after the other. He treated them no differently than any other. Like all other patients, he “fixed ‘em right up”.

Gold Star Wife

Gold Star Service Banner.

I remember the time I first saw a Gold Star. It was hanging in a large picture window of an "old" house. Growing up in the Florida Panhandle, the "Cradle of Naval Aviation", I might have seen a "Star" previously but did not understand the significance of its meaning. However, it was this occasion in Southern California that left a life-long impression.

I was a young Marine on TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) orders to 29 Palms MCAGCC, CA. During a "96" (a 4-day weekend; 24 x 4), a few of us drove to San Diego. Late Saturday afternoon, we were looking for a place a few streets off the Beach and wound up in a residential area. While driving through, I saw a "middle-aged" woman walking back to her house from the mailbox. I then noticed something hanging in the window. It stopped me in my tracks. I bailed out of the car, quickly crossed the street while the other Marines "dismounted with military precision". They had no idea what was going on, but they had my "Six". I cautiously approached the woman, hoping not to alarm her. She looked good for "middle-aged". (To a young Marine, my idea of "old" and "middle-aged" was vastly different than what it is now.) She was wearing jeans, a pastel yellow collared button-down shirt, and what we now readily identify as "deck shoes". Her hair, long and beautiful. She noticed us and asked if she could help. I stammered something about being Marines and why we were in San Diego. She smiled. I then said, "That is the first one I've ever seen," as I pointed with a nod of my head towards her large window.

Vietnam Veterans War Memorial -- aka The Wall.

The guys saw it, instantly knowing why I stopped. Framed perfectly in the picture window hung a Gold Star Service Banner. 

I don't know about them, but the whole 'join the Corps and kill the bad guys' just got real for me. (Note: This was before the Beirut bombing and losing some guys we knew.) Suddenly, my heart was beating faster, and my breathing increased. Somehow, the saliva normally in my mouth had migrated to my eyes while undergoing metamorphosis, changing from saliva to tears. My mouth was dry, but my eyes more than made up for the lack of moisture. After a few moments of silence, she explained her husband "was a Navy Corpsman attached to Marines out of Pendleton". Marines love their HMs. (Note: The US Marine Corps does not staff Clergy or Medical personnel; instead, they rely on the US Navy. HM or Hospital Corpsman, are US Navy "medics" attached to Marine units.) Each Corpsman has the same name: Doc. Her "Doc" was killed in the early '70s fighting in Vietnam. After his death, she decided to remain in the house they purchased to raise their two young children.

We made small talk. She was extremely gracious and offered to fix us something to drink, "I have lemonade". There was a part of me that wanted to accept her offer, if for no other reason than to lubricate my mouth dehydrated from the adrenaline racing through my body. We managed awkward responses declining her sincere invitation.

At the last moment, as the guys turned to walk back to the car, I summoned my courage and told her I was thankful for her husband's service, honored to have met her, and offered my condolences for her loss. She closed the few feet between us, took me in her arms, and hugged me, while saying "Thank you". After a brief but emotionally charged embrace she dropped one arm, turned me towards the guys while still embracing me with her other arm, and told us something like, "I know you are Marines but you are not invincible. Take care of yourself and look after each other. You do not want your mommas or wives ever getting one of those" as she pointed with a nod of her head towards the Gold Star Service Banner.

The adrenaline dump was nearly over, and emotions were beginning to take control. Marines Do Not Cry—I guess we were the inspiration for Major League Baseball's saying, "There's no cryin' in BASEBALL!"—but I could not stop the emotion filling my entire being. At that moment, I did not want to think about any of this and regretted opening my mouth. All I had to do was just turn and walk to the car with the guys. As I listened to her words, I became more aware of her hair. It was brunette with natural auburn highlights, but what caught my attention was the fragrance. Her hair smelled like a prairie of wildflowers. Peaceful. Tranquil. Serene.

Suddenly, I felt better. I was not going to embarrass myself in front of other Marines, and especially this sweet woman. I told her I was glad I met her and would forever look at Gold Stars differently.

She was still standing in the driveway as we pulled away, waving goodbye. We ended up not going where we had originally planned. Somehow, the girls in a strip club just could not compare with the beautiful woman we had just met.

That night, as I lay in my cheap hotel double rack, I thought back over the moments I spent with her. I thought of her husband dying in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Did she stop him in his tracks the first time he saw her? How many times had he heard "I have lemonade"? Did he have a similar memory of seeing her standing in the driveway waving goodbye? Perhaps a toddler at her side while holding a baby? Did the fragrance of her hair bring a smile to his face as he lay in his rack at night thinking of her? I envisioned the last moments before his death; writhing in pain, the coppery, iron-rich, acrid aroma of blood mixed with gunpowder filling his nostrils while screaming out in pain. Then perhaps God, in His infinite mercy, blew the scent of a prairie of wildflowers onto the breeze. Lavender, Honeysuckle, Jasmine, Lilac—every sweet fragrant chasing away the acrid, stale scent of death. Wafting to and fro, dancing to the slowing rhythm of his beating heart. Peaceful. Tranquil. Serene.

Arlington National Cemetery, Memorial Day.

Often, I wish I had taken a photo of the meeting or simply asked her name. I quickly dismissed that because my feelings of both immense gratitude and remorse could not be more genuine had I known all her personal details. Strangely, this is how we should feel towards all Gold Star families. We do not need to know them to appreciate their sacrifices and losses.

I shall never forget the sacrifices and loss of this Gold Star Wife and all Gold Star families. For them, every day is Memorial Day.

To God, Country, and Corps I shall remain,

SEMPER FIDELIS

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

John 15:13

Author's Note

The Service Banner tradition began in World War I as a means of honoring families that had loved ones serving during the war.  They were standardized and codified during World War II. A Blue Star Service Banner was given to the family of a Soldier, Sailor, or Marine serving at home or abroad. Additional Blue Stars were added to the same flag for multiple family members in service. Upon the heartbreaking news their loved one had paid the ultimate price, a Blue Star was removed and a Gold Star sewn in its stead. Each banner is limited to four stars, 

Blue and Gold Star Service Banners

Battle of Ed's Shed

USA National Flag

The day started out uneventful. Not unlike other late-March or early-April days in North Alabama. That would all change in a matter of hours. After eating lunch I walked into the backyard, water bottle in one hand and a mechanics rag in the other to my newly built shed (last summer). It is elevated to keep out water and both legged and legless creatures. Inside my mowers and lawn tools awaited me. I opened the door and was caught in a hasty ambush.

USMC Flag

Dozens of huge red wasps swarm at me. I dashed left, spun, taking one out with the rag, and made a hasty, yet tactical retreat. From a safe distance, I performed a quick recce and identified at least four enemy encampments (nests). I returned to my FOB--Forward Operating Base (garage) to quickly don my body armor (shirt and hat) and arm myself with both a long-range weapon (Raid Wasp and Hornet Spray) and close combat breacher (broom). I checked my med kit (medicine cabinet) to verify I had appropriate emergency medicine (Benedryl), then fueled up on Go Juice (Dr Pepper). Like many warriors before me, I shared a tender, heartfelt moment with my wife (I hollered at her saying I was going back outside).

Ed's Shed

All my training kicked in. I approached from an angle that provided both cover and concealment. I crept closer and was soon at the jumping-off place. I noticed their scouts flying in a protective formation. I checked my weapons and steeled my nerves. With a Rebel Yell, I flung open the door and attacked. I hit the first nest in the very back. Quickly re-aimed and hit a second. By now the enemy had scrambled their air wing. Some went high. Some went low. It was a nightmare--an evil marriage of blitzkrieg and kamikaze. I felt them zipping by my face; trying to sink their stinger missiles in my flesh. I bobbed. I weaved. I zigged. I zagged. I start yelling at them. DIE YOU SONS-OF-BITCHES! I took aim--leading them and shooting them in midflight. First one, then another. The battle turned bloody. Hand-to-hand, or at least foot-to-wing. Blood and guts stained the deck a brownish-red. I was then in a position to attack the most well-fortified encampment: in the A-frame directly above the hatch (door). Adrenalin coursing through my body robbed me of saliva. With a dry mouth and a "thousand-yard stare," I took aim and fired twice. Both hitting the target. I quickly cleared the nests with the breacher.

Enemy KIA

I stood alone on the field of battle. I felt a little light-headed, dismissing it as the post-battle shakes. The Fog of War. Everything was hazy. No, more actually foggy. It took a moment to realize it was the "fog" from the spray can. I reached for my gas mask only to realize I left it at FOB. I retreated to a safe overwatch distance.

Enemy KIA

After a while, I return to perform a BDA (Battle Damage Assessment) and get a body count. Lying on the deck were the remains of the enemy. Thirty-seven confirmed enemy KIA. There is no greater honor than to give your life for your country or cause. Today, I gave that honor to my enemy. You are welcome.

For nearly 240 years Marines have fought in some of the bloodiest battles. Montezuma. Tripoli. Belleau Wood. Iwo Jima. Chosin. Khe Sanh. Fallujah. Now we add one more storied battle to the annals of USMC lore: The Battle of Ed's Shed. Close your eyes and you can hear an all-male squad of Marines singing “Marines' Hymn”. An American flag blowing in the breeze.

I have already been approached by some publishing houses wanting my story. Clint Eastwood wants to bring it to the big screen. I would agree to all provided they leave out the final scene. My wife laughed from the Rear Echelon (back deck) telling me I looked like a drunk fat man attempting kung-fu movements while experiencing some sort of seizure.

Perhaps I should not have killed all the wasps and allowed one to sneak behind our lines.

Semper Fidelis!

We Are The Marines

I am a US Marine. I shall remain a Marine until the day God calls me home. I have not worn the uniform or received any military pay in years, but I have never stopped being a Marine. Marine is a title that I earned and claimed over 30 years ago.

I am no different than any other that has worn the uniform bearing the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor. I am never alone because Marines leave no one behind and we take care of our own. I am part of a brotherhood that many will never understand. We were forged under pressure allowing the fire to burn out all the dross, leaving behind the tempered spirit and strengthened body of a warrior.

Major Samuel Nichols was the first Marine and served as the first Commandant. The second Marine, Robert Mullan was a bar owner. He was commissioned as a Captain and became the first Marine Recruiter. The first Marines swore allegiance to a fledgling country on 10 NOV 1775, in a Philadelphia, PA bar called Tun Tavern. By their service, they helped plant the seeds of the Tree of Liberty. Their spilled blood watered the seedling. Their blood runs through the veins of every Marine that has come after. This blood, this life force bands us together as brothers. This blood, this Esprit De Corps, connects every Marine, has been shed to protect this Country.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me, shall always be my brother." -- William Shakespeare | Henry V 

Blood that was spilled in “every clime and place”.

1stSgt Brad Kasal, 13 NOV 04.

Blood that clumped the desert sands of the Barbary Coast in a place called Tripoli.

Blood that ‘striped’ the Halls of Montezuma.

Blood that was sweetened by Cuban sugar.

Blood that mixed with the mud at the bottom of European trenches.

Blood that stained the sand on South Pacific beaches.

Blood that froze on a reservoir called Chosin.

Blood that dotted hillsides and valleys of Far East jungles.

Blood that painted the barrack walls in Beirut.

Blood that was spent liberating Kuwait.

Blood that ran as thick as sweet crude in Iraq.

Blood that blackened Afghanistan deserts.

“We have fought our country’s battles” in places like Chapultepec, Tripoli, Belleau Wood, Tarawa, Iwo Jima, Okinawa, Inchon, Chosin, Da Nang, Hué, Khe San, Beirut, Kandahar, Fallujah, and Mosul.
We will continue to voluntarily go to “far off Northern lands, and sunny tropic scenes” and do whatever is necessary. We will “fight for right and freedom”. It is what we were destined to do, We are Marines.

Once we earned the title, we are accepted into the Brotherhood of Marines. We become warriors and we draw on the legacy of all previous Marines. We are strengthened by this legacy, and in return, we strengthen the Corps. We are defined by our character that consists of three values: Honor, Courage, and Commitment.

Honor: First and foremost, each Marine must adhere to a code of personal integrity, holding himself accountable for his actions, and do everything in his power to not soil the reputation of the Corps.

Courage: We must have the courage and moral fortitude to do what is right, whether on the battlefield or “back on the block”.

Commitment: We commit ourselves to a higher standard and are determined to never give up and never quit. We dedicate ourselves to achieving excellence. We live out our motto of Semper Fidelis—Always Faithful—to God, Country and Corps in all that we do.

We know and accept we are Marines 24/7/365, in and out of uniform. “Once a Marine, Always a Marine”. We are the standard for which others model. We are the benchmark for which others strive. We are the First to Fight, we are the Leathernecks, we are the Devil Dogs, we are the Few, we are the Proud, WE ARE THE MARINES.

Each 10 NOV, I take a moment to reflect on my time in the Corps, who we are and what we do. I think about the Marines that came before me, their legacy, and sacrifices. I think of the Marines currently serving dealing with their injuries. I think of those that gave their all. I am filled with pride, gratitude, and sadness. I listen to the Marines' Hymn. All of this puts a lump in my throat. I then lift a glass of Jack Daniels and say, “here’s health to you and to the Corps”. Guess this is only fitting since the Corps started in a bar.

Thank you United States Marine Corps for making me the man I am. Thank you for all you have done for this country and the World. Thank you for 239 years of serving proudly. Happy Birthday Marines.

OOH RAH!

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” - Thomas Jefferson

[Note: For mobile users, the Commandant's birthday message is below, but does not appear on some mobile devices. If you would like to view this touching message, click on this link.]
Commandant's 2014 USMC Birthday Greeting