History Lesson

In the end, it is not the years in your life that count.  It’s the life in your years.–Abraham Lincoln

I have always found history fascinating.  I enjoy watching documentaries, reading textbooks, visiting historical sites, and looking at old, black-and-white photographs.  I don’t really know why I am fascinated with the past.  Maybe I just like the idea that there was life before I was born and there will be life after I leave.  History reminds me that time is never ending.  Maybe I like the idea that everything we say and do now will become the memories we turn to in the future for guidance or comfort.  Maybe our history is proof that our time hasn’t been wasted, and maybe, just maybe, there was a purpose to our collective lives and consciousness.  History demonstrates a solid cause and effect that can be mapped out as life progresses and our drama continues to unfold.  History reminds us who we are, where we came from, and the connection we all share to life.

So, if I truly honor past events that have created life as we know it today, why, every year, do I always dread August 21?  I don’t enjoy celebrating my birthday for several different reasons.  I don’t always like all of the attention.  Sometimes, I prefer to go unnoticed.  I also don’t feel comfortable accepting presents.  I don’t want people to spend their money on me when I know they may be financially struggling.  Or maybe…

Okay, to be honest…

I hate celebrating my birthday because I don’t like turning a year older.

There I said it.  I hate getting older.  It bothers me because I don’t see myself the way other people have started to view me.  In my heart, in my soul, I still see myself as a spritely, physically strong, highly capable, intelligent, attractive, young woman.

I’m amazed how many people disagree with me.

I was horrified the first time I was offered a senior discount at the movies.  But…but…I’m a young woman!  Why would I be offered the discount?  My brother, Tony, tried to calm my anxiety.  “Jamie, every person who works in retail or fast food thinks anybody over 30 is a senior.”  His explanation didn’t help.  How did I possibly go from being carded to being offered senior discounts?  What happened to the in-between years?

And I almost went over the edge when I received my first offer to become an AARP member.  I stared at the letter and magazine in abstract horror before I manically shoved both pieces of literature into the paper shredder.

I cringed in terror when I tripped the other day at work and one of my colleagues stated, “You have to be careful.  At your age, you could have fallen and broken your hip.”  I was shocked when I was informed by personnel at the school where I was teaching that my health insurance was going up by twenty dollars a month because I had crossed over into the “older age” category.  I’m always surprised when websites and applications ask my birth year and I have to scroll further down now to find the date.  And just how is it possible that people born in the year 2000 are getting their driver’s licenses now?  Why am I looking at the younger generation and saying things like, “Well, when I was growing up, we were taught to show respect…”  Isn’t that what my grandmother used to say?

I have tried desperately through the years to prove to other people that I am still a young woman.  I buy skin products like anti-wrinkle creams believing that each “magic elixir” holds the secret to eternal youth.  I put in hair extensions and dyed all the gray out of my hair.  Each gray strand reminded me of each day ticking off my life.  I go to the gym constantly and try to convince myself that I am in better shape now then when I was a teenager….if only my knees would stop popping.  I exercise and stimulate my mind by reading, writing, and studying…well…history!  Why do other people so quickly point out and joke about my gray hairs, the lines on my face, my momentary memory losses, and my thin, frail body?

For these reasons, I have let several years pass by without celebrating my birthday.  I didn’t plan on celebrating this year either.  I was just going to go to work, go to the gym, and not deviate from my usual day’s routine.

But then…

Ignoring my request to let August 21 just pass by this year, my family surprised me with dinners, sweet gifts, nice compliments, and a visit to the Kansas City Zoo.  And I was shocked how many people posted wonderful birthday greetings and blessings on my Facebook page.  The good wishes were heartwarming and made me feel connected to so many amazing people who had guided and supported me throughout the years.  Today, Tuesday, August 23, I received a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside a birthday card from my aunt Nancy in Florida.  The card and money made me smile as if I was eight-years-old again…and I think I appreciated the gift more now than I did as a child.  I understood the sacrifice my aunt made by sending me the money and I was touched by her generosity.  The money made me smile, too, because it reminded me of my mother who also sent money through the mail regardless of the risk of loss or theft.  My aunt and mother are women of grace; beautiful, trusting souls who saw the simple good in life, an attribute that only comes…

…that only comes with age!

And that’s when I realize that birthdays are a true blessing!  This year, I thoroughly enjoyed the attention I received from my family and friends and loved the birthday celebrations.

I suddenly realized that my birthday really wasn’t about getting older.  It was a commemoration of how far I have come in my life.  It was a reflection of the connections I have made and the friendships I hold dear.  As I went about my day on August 21, I didn’t feel a year older.  Instead, I felt surprisingly blessed.  I was so thankful for every day of my life and all of the amazing experiences I have had over the years.

Now, I have years of experience and knowledge that only comes with age!

And with age comes a carefree sense of self.  I walk around in my pajamas and go out in public without makeup or brushing my hair and I don’t care.  I say what I feel and don’t worry if it’s not the popular opinion.  I hold on to the things that I like and don’t worry if other people think my ideas are stupid.  I sing out loud and dance with spirit even though other people think I have no talent.  I hold on to my beliefs and refuse any pressure to become someone different.  I try to handle my stress and don’t insert myself into other people’s problems.  I’ve learned to live my life free, accepting the person that I am without fear of what other people think of me. I have grown comfortable in the person I have become.

And I know that all of those who offer me the senior discount and fear for creaking knees will not know this until they too have reached the age of “old,” the age of wearing pajamas in public and dancing when there is no music.

I am more of myself today than I have ever been.  I haven’t grown old.  I’ve grown up by growing strong and growing joyful and growing free.  Among the many great presents I have received over the years, I appreciate the gifts of humility and wisdom the most.  And this year, I learned that every day is precious and every moment needs to be celebrated.  My best birthday gift in 2016 was to see every year as one more blessing.

Though I now have my own unique past, I still maintain my childish heart.  I still have dreams and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.  But I also have stories to tell and wisdom to share.  I have lived a full life of travel, adventure, successes, failures, heartbreaks, laughter, and tears….

Now, I am older.  I have a history….

I am history.

Advertisement

Memorial Day With Grandma Edith

Edith Marie McCurdy was born in Kansas on July 7, 1906.  When she was just a young girl, her father tragically passed away.  Edith was forced to leave school to care of her younger brothers and sisters while her mother worked three jobs to support the family.  My great grandmother McCurdy was a unique and interesting character.  She was a strong, colorful woman who was known for beating the neighborhood men in rounds of poker while smoking cigars and enjoying endless shots of whiskey.  An independent role model, great grandmother McCurdy raised her three daughters to be as strong and tough as she was.  The three McCurdy sisters—Edith, Alma, and Lil—were smart, beautiful women who were constantly compared to Katherine Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, and Audrey Hepburn.

In 1922, at the age of sixteen, Edith eloped with Ralph LeRoy Burgess.  A year into the marriage, Edith gave birth to her first child, Ralph, Jr.  Over the next ten years, the family grew with the addition of three more children—Jimmy, Nancy, and Leslee (my mother).  Though the Burgess family is directly descended from the House of Burgess (the ruling royal family during the founding of America before the Revolutionary War) in the 1930s, Ralph LeRoy struggled to support his family.  During the Great Depression, he worked as a plumber and handyman, taking any odd jobs he could find in order to support his growing family.  The Burgess family never had much of anything—money, food, or possessions–and they continually struggled for survival.

Every morning during the cold Kansas winters of the 1930s, the two young sons, Ralph and Jimmy, would wake up very early, put on their tattered coats, and walk outside into the cold, dark morning.  The sons would join other young boys who walked along the railroad tracks and picked up lumps of coal that had fallen off the trains.  Coal was the only source of heat for all of the families in Kansas, but no one could afford it.  Grabbing the coal off of the snow-covered train tracks was the only way most families could survive.  Technically, however, the coal belonged to the railroad companies, so even picking it up off the ground was considered stealing.  The young boys walking along the tracks were constantly looking out for policemen as they slipped the black, dirty, hard clumps into the torn pockets of their coats.  However, the threat of an arrest was unfounded.  Many of the officers chose to look the other way when they saw the boys walking the tracks.  Some officers even helped the younger boys gather up the coal before escorting them back home to their mothers and issuing a stern warning.  However, the next day the officers would look the other way when the young boys once again arrived at the railroad yards.

According to Grandma, the Great Depression was a time when people pulled together and shared what little they had.  “People were kind to each other then,” she would say.  “Everyone was always offering what little food and coal they had to each other.  We had no choice.  We were all suffering.”

And things were about to get worse.  World War II took many of the young men far from home and far from their families.  But once again, people rallied, Grandma claimed, and continued working together.  Young,  brave men were eager to enlist and fight for America’s freedom, especially after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.  Young courageous women went to work in factories where they helped build equipment needed for the war effort.  Families would gather together in the afternoons for activities such as writing letters to the troops or rolling old material into bandages.  People spent what little money they had buying war bonds and contributing to care packages sent overseas to the troops.  Women would use dark liner to draw straight lines down the back of their legs.  The lines resembled the seams that usually were found in the back of nylon stockings.  The women were disguising the fact that they were now bare-legged.  The nylon was being used to create parachutes for the men overseas.  Other small luxuries, like chocolate, were no longer available to the general public.  The precious items were being sent to the troops overseas.  The American people gladly sacrificed their material goods and simple pleasures for the war effort.

Many American homes began to resemble caves.  The houses were shrouded with blackout curtains, which blocked any light coming in or out of their homes.  The houses were plunged into darkness to make them invisible to foreign planes that might fly over America and drop bombs, which was currently happening in England and across Europe.  Due to the bomb scare, many homes had bomb shelters and underground bunkers.  Public places held weekly bomb raid drills and school children were taught how to duck and cover.  According to Grandma, all Americans participated in the war effort.

Roman Senate Seneca once stated, “Great men rejoice in adversity, just as brave soldiers triumph in war.”  The stressful situations of World War II brought Americans together as they overcame adversity and triumphed in their battles.  At that time, our troops were considered heroes and were gratefully supported by American citizens who had also sacrificed to keep America strong and free.

So Memorial Day was always very special to my grandmother.  Every year, on the last Monday of May, my family would go with Grandma Edith  to the local florist to buy exquisite wreaths and bouquets of lilies and roses.  Not understanding the significance of the flowers when we were younger, my sisters and I loved to play with them.  For instance, we would pretend we were brides carrying the huge bouquets down the aisle.  We would sit in the back seat of the car holding the wreaths and bouquets on our laps and become intoxicated by the sweet, natural aroma that filled the car.

As my mother drove around town to various cemeteries, Grandma Edie would tell us stories about the Great Depression and World War II.  She would tell us about the way people supported and loved each other.  She would talk about the families that would gather together to cry over their losses and rejoice over the return of their sons.  At each of the cemeteries, Grandma would lovingly clean off the headstones and place flowers on the graves of her family and friends.  Many of the people Grandma honored had served in the war but many others were family members or friends who had shown love and support during the most trying times in America’s history.  Grandma believed that all people who stood up to adversity and fought for the rights of others bravely served our country.  The soldiers  on the battle field, the young women in the factories, the families rolling bandages, the people giving up chocolate and nylons, the teachers who instructed in bomb drill techniques, the souls crying over losses that were not even their own.  All had served and all should be honored.

So for Grandma Edith, Memorial Day was a day to respect all people who had lived, loved, served, gave of themselves, and took care of each other when America faced great adversity.  My family never celebrated Memorial Day in any other way.  We never went to barbeques or had parties.  We didn’t go to the opening of swimming pools and celebrate the coming of summer.  Thanks to my grandmother, the holiday always held a traditional meaning for my family.  We spent the day honoring all who served…at home and abroad.  And although I admit that as an adult, I no longer spend the day visiting gravesides, Memorial Day remains a day of quiet reflection and in appreciation for all who serve America…

….just as my wonderful grandma Edie had taught me.

 

 

 

 

Beautiful Belgium

 

Several years ago, as I was packing to travel through the southern part of America, my mother asked me what was my hurry to leave Kansas again.  I had lived in New Mexico, Tennessee, and California.  I had traveled extensively throughout America, driving cross-country on many occasions.  I had lived in England and traveled throughout Europe, Thailand, and Malaysia.

I thought my answer to Mom’s question was very honest and logical.  “Because, Mom, there are so many great things to see in this world.  God’s created so many wonderful landscapes and it’s also amazing to see what people have accomplished.  But, you know, there are always wars and disasters.  What if we run out of time?  What if we don’t get to experience all of the many wonders of the world before they are all destroyed by man or nature?”

Before I had finished my heartfelt statement, Mom was already packed and waiting in the car for me.  We would travel throughout America together and I’m so happy now that we had those special moments.  My mother entered heaven six years ago…and most of the beautiful world has been destroyed…not by nature or God, but by the will of man.

I was heartbroken last November when terrorist turned romantic, enchanting Paris into a battle zone.  Now, today, my heart is again splitting in two as I read the news reports about the suicide bomb attacks on the airport and train in Brussels, Belgium.  At least, 30 people were killed and many were injured.

My prayers today are with the people of Belgium.  I had been in that lovely country at a very innocent time.  When I was traveling the world, there was no fear of terrorist attacks.  I was in Belgium at a time when the country was joyful and peaceful.  I did not visit Brussels, unfortunately.  I was in the lovely, enchanted city of Bruges, just sixty miles northwest of Brussels.  Bruges is a place everyone should take the time to see someday, if there is still the opportunity now.  It is a fairy-tale, charmed city that still maintains its centuries-old architecture.  Most of the structures have been standing since medieval times (around the thirteenth century).  Visiting Bruges is like stepping back in time.   I am grateful I had the opportunity to experience this amazing city.

I had been living in England for just a month when the college I was attending arranged a trip to Bruges, Belgium, for all foreign students.  We would be taking an overnight cruise on a Thursday and returning the following Sunday.  Though the trip sounded enticing, several of my American friends debated if they should miss classes to go on the trip that was scheduled to leave on Thursday afternoon, November 26, 1992.  They didn’t want to miss classes on Thursday and Friday.  I thought I had the perfect solution.  “But Thursday is Thanksgiving,” I stated.  “You won’t be missing classes.”

“Um, Jamie,” the other American students informed me.  “They don’t have Thanksgiving in England!”

Oops!  My mistake!  Of course, I knew that.  I had just forgotten where I was for a moment.  But I decided not to feel stupid.  And I absolutely refused to feel guilty for skipping classes.  Though I always believed school was important, I absolutely was not going to miss the trip to Bruges!  I had come to England for the experience, not just the education.  I wanted to see all that I could see.  Any opportunity that presented itself to visit other countries, I’d be damned if I was going to pass it up!  This would be my first trip to Europe and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  Unfortunately, now, that world is slipping away.  I’m so pleased I decided to go on the cruise.  I didn’t give my classes a second thought.  I didn’t know if I would get another opportunity like this.

I had never been on a cruise before and loved being on the boat, even though, through another small bout of idiocy, I almost missed it.  I had taken a taxi to the port early and arrived before any of my fellow American classmates or our faculty advisor, Tom, had appeared.  I had been worried about missing the boat so I was content to arrive almost an hour early to meet up with everyone.

Slowly, my fellow travelers began to drift in until there were about thirty students sitting with Tom in the lobby waiting for the call announcing that we could board our ship.  However, before we could get on the boat we had to fill out an immigration card.  Card…what card?  Oh, yes, that thick, little, yellow card we were given by the university when we signed up for the trip and I had just thrown away in the port lobby trash can while I was waiting to board because I didn’t think it was important.  Now, I suddenly realized I wasn’t going to be able to get on the boat without it!

I wasn’t alone in my error this time, however.  Most of the American students did not have their cards either much to the annoyance of the small customs officer guarding the gate.  The officer was a short, skinny man with sparse gray hair, a loud voice, and a total lack of patience.  He appeared to become even more aggravated and annoyed with each of the students who tried to pass through his gate without the appropriate documents.  Explaining that the yellow cards had to be completely filled out before we could board, the officer loudly pronounced each student “Idiot” or “Moron” as he handed out additional cards and pens.

Suddenly, it was my turn at the customs desk and I was added to officer’s “moron” list.  I took the card and the pen he handed me and ran over to a little bench against the side wall to fill out the document.  I put down all of the necessary information: my name, where I was from, what country I was traveling to, and when I expected to return.  I noticed that my fellow classmates had now boarded the boat and I was the last one left.  I hurriedly applied my signature to the card and ran back to the gate.  The officer snatched the card out of my hand and said, “You finally finished.  You’re leaving the country.  Good, we can all celebrate now that you’re gone.”

And all of a sudden, out of my mouth came the words, “Funny.  That’s what they said when I left America, too.”

The customs officer suddenly stopped and stared at me for a moment…and then laughed out loud.  He smiled at me so beautifully, wished me a great trip, and told me he hoped I traveled safely.  He stamped my card, handed it back to me with a squeeze of my hand, and pointed out which direction I needed to go next.  He walked me to the gate with an arm across my shoulders before telling me good-bye and returning to his desk.  It was so strange to me that just those few words that popped right out of my mouth made the officer so kind and warm.  It was a great start to the trip to Bruges, Belgium.

It got even better, too.  We were traveling over night and one of the first things we did upon boarding the ship was enter the dining room for supper.  My gosh, I have never seen so much food in my life!  All kinds of food was lined up on every available counter space and steam table on the far side of the large room.  The food was endless.  People were lined up everywhere, grabbing first, second, and third platefuls of fish, chicken, steak, potatoes, vegetables, and rich, creamy deserts.  The counters were never empty regardless of how much food the passengers seized.  I imagined that all of the food could probably have feed hundreds of families for the next five years.  As starving students, I don’t know if that fact occurred to us at the time as we continued to go back to the buffet tables for additional nibbles of the entrees.  The food was there and we continued to indulge, our stomachs almost as deep and endless as the North Sea we were crossing.

About ten pm that night, while many of my fellow students were at the on-board bar, disco, or movie theater, I stood out on the deck and looked out into complete, never-ending darkness.  Every now and then, I would see a small ripple of water, but I couldn’t believe how lost I was in the total blackness.  There were no lights at all from the sky or the sea.  I was just drifting away, alone, with no one or nothing to hold me down.  I stood for a long time sailing away in the darkness, contemplating what would happen if I fell over the side of the boat.  Now, this was very different.  I wasn’t contemplating suicide, but I was being seduced by the nothingness and silence of everything around me.  I just fantasized slipping into that darkness and letting myself drift peacefully away, floating into eternity.  Finally, exhausted from the day, I breathed deeply into the blackness a few more times before finally going off to bed and letting the gentle currents rock me into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I woke up early and went for a morning run around the ship before meeting up with my classmates, Melissa and Sheilah.  We walked around the ship singing “My Girl” at the top of our lungs.  I was just so in the moment, feeling the sea breeze against my skin and the rocking of the ship under my feet, that I sang out loud in full voice, something I don’t usually do with other people around.  I didn’t care who heard me that day.  I was happy, carefree, and at peace.

After a few hours, we finally docked at the Belgium port and prepared to leave the ship.  Most of us from Hull University got off the ship easily but had a long wait on the bus that was going to take us to our hotel.  I couldn’t imagine what was taking so long for us to leave.  Everyone grew more concerned as Tom left the bus several times to run back to the docked ship.  After forty-five minutes, we were finally given some information.  One person from our group was missing.  The absentee had been found but there was another problem.  He was too drunk to get off the ship.  He had partied so much the night before, that officials were working relentlessly and furiously that morning trying to revive him.

For many of the students, this was one of their first moments of freedom, away from home, family, and school, and they took full advantage of it.  It certainly didn’t help to be on a ship that had several bars, restaurants, movie theaters, discos, gyms, and food and drink everywhere.  It was a boat full of temptation everywhere a person turned.  Many people were enticed to indulge without limitations.

It was finally decided to leave the student behind and once he sobered up, he would join us in Bruges.  He finally came stumbling out of a taxi in front of the hotel late in the afternoon.  At least, he did make it and had the opportunity to see such a glorious city.

…And glorious it was!  I fell in love with Bruges.  It continues to be one of the most fascinating places I have ever been.  I watched a Christmas holiday parade that proudly presented Saint Nicholas riding into town on a donkey.  I took endless pictures of the unusual architecture and brick twisted streets.  I’m fascinated with architecture and have countless photos of buildings and city views.  I actually explored the city on my own.  Everyone else opted to party at night and sleep the day away. I was just the opposite.  I explored the city continuously during the day, walking through the gorgeous courtyards, dancing down the cobbled streets, daydreaming by the river, and fantasizing about being a princess in the thirteenth century.  I went to bed early every night, so I could wake up to enjoy the sun rising over beautiful Belgium.

On the very last day of our time in this great country, I actually took on the role of tour guide for several late-night-partying students.  I showed them the many highlights of the town before getting on the bus to head back to the docks.  Several people later told me how much they regretted not experiencing more of this beautiful city.  I have no regrets at all.  I took full advantage of exploring Bruges on the limited time I had there.

It was a rough journey back to England on the ship, though.  On the way to Belgium, the cruise had been very smooth and comfortable.  “That’s because we are fighting the currents,” Tom informed me when I expressed my surprise at the rough rocking and tossing of the ship this time.  That made sense.  I could understand that but then he continued, “I’m really surprised we got to go at all.  Last year, the crew forgot to shut the doors in the bottom of one of their passenger ships.  The bottom filled with water and the whole boat capsized.  Hundreds of people drowned.”  Way more information than I needed.  I went to bed that night, agonizing and praying over every bump and wave.  I was relieved when we finally made it back to England the next morning.

But that scare did not stop me from believing that my time in Bruges, Belgium, was one of the most magical adventures of my life.  Gorgeous, amazing, wonderful Belgium…my heart is breaking for you now.  I pray for your recovery and I’m saddened for all of the people who never got to experience your majestic, enchanted atmosphere in the past.  Visiting your amazing country has been one of my best memories.  God bless Belgium and all of her people.

 

 

 

Memorial Day–Pray Today For a Soldier

I hate war.  I hate the destruction and the countless casualties that are the inevitable result of any battle.  I cringe when I hear people comment that most wars are only about religion or oil.  I sometimes agree when people question American involvement in many foreign conflicts.  So, due to emotional confusion, I never really celebrated Memorial Day, which is holiday to honor the fallen soldiers of our armed forces.  However, today, Monday, May 25, 2015, Memorial Day has taken on a completely different meaning for me.

At my college, the last term, which just ended Thursday, May 21, I was assigned to teach a new class.  The course was HIS215 Modern World History.  I was excited to be appointed to this class.  I was pleased that the Dean of my college told me I had enough credits to teach the class at the community college where I have worked for the past seven years.  Over the years, I had mainly been teaching all the basic prep pass/fail courses in Math and English.  I was thrilled to have this new opportunity to teach an advanced course and was even more excited that the class focused on 20^th century history.  History had been one of my favorite subjects when I was in college.

HIS215 covered WWI, WWII, the Korean War, The Vietnam War, Desert Storm, and the War on Terrorism.  Even though I had studied history in college, many of the details and facts had faded from my brain over the last several years.  I had to do an amazing amount of reading, researching, and studying to focus myself on the events of the 20^th century, which actually is considered by most historians to be the most violent, bloodiest century in history.  I spent endless hours perusing volumes of material in order to give my students the best information about the events.  I tend to be an “Information Junkie.” I was amazed by how much I learned while teaching this class.

In the 20^th century, most American presidents like Woodrow Wilson were pacifists who fought to keep America out of wars and created documents like the “Fourteen Points” to develop peace in the world.  Many conflicts like WWI, WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War were fought by brave Americans to stop the spread of Imperialism and Communism.  So many courageous men and women gave their lives fearlessly to America to fight for democracy and freedom.

Many of my students were shocked by the events of the different wars and developed a better understanding of the American perspective.  My students were severely outraged by the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center.  That event happened when the majority of my students were just 6 or 7 years old.  I watched as horror and compassion slowly graced their shocked faces.  “I understand now,” most of them stated.  “That’s what happened!  That’s what that conflict was all about!”  Pride, compassion, and respect are the byproduct of knowledge and understanding.  I think the majority of us, myself included, walked away from that class with a true respect for the American soldier.

There should be a law that all Americans must take a history course every year!  Due to this class, my perspective of war and our American troops has completely realigned.  I don’t know if it is from the review of the conflicts or the wisdom I have gained as I have grown older, but my deepest respect has grown for all of our men and women in uniform.

Memorial Day should not be about bar-b-ques and swimming pools.  Memorial Day should not be observed as the beginning of summer.  Memorial Day should be revered, either out loud with fellow Americans or silently in our own hearts, as the day we pay respect and tribute to all American forces who have fought or who continue to fight for American honor!  PRAY TODAY FOR A SOLDIER!  God bless our troops!