Writing

[Editorial]
[Business]
[Grant Proposals]
[Local Interest]

For Families, the Iraq War Is Not About Politics

By Maryan Pelland
It never occurred to me that my children could die. I mean, not even once from the glory days of sweet faces and scabby knees. But ten days ago at Tampa International, I waited for my soldier-son’s return from Iraq and I contemplated 2000 other mothers whose children died in the sand there. As do most Americans, I have strong feelings about war in general and that war in particular, but when your family has a loved one’s life on the line every single day, none of that matters. Politics suddenly loses all meaning – world issues, pushed out of your head, are replaced with anxiety.

My kids work for the U.S. Government. Aren, 26, drives an Army Paladin, a self-propelled canon. Beth, 21, is in her third year of Navy service – aircraft electronics tech. My eldest, Matt, is an intelligence agent.

When they left home, I was proud, of course. They chose jobs to somehow mitigate America’s Sept 11. Small town life seemed unlikely preparation. I was mildly apprehensive, as mothers are.

At three years old, Aren messed with a wasp nest and earned himself a dozen stings. I righteously nursed his wounds, feeling angry at the universe for endangering my boy. In 2003, two decades later, at his bootcamp graduation, I watched a mockup of the conduct of war and I remembered his stings.

While pyrotechnics left spots in my eyes and harmless explosions boomed in my chest, I struggled with tears and an eerie sense of something I couldn’t name. Those new soldiers’ average age was about 18, the universe had a wake-up call for them and no mother on earth could forestall it.

That I couldn’t shield Aren anymore confused me. I hugged my son, congratulating him and cherishing the blessed knowledge that he was not bound for Iraq. His unit, the 2BCT, 2 nd Brigade Combat Team, was based in Korea since the 1950s.

Weeks later Aren called. I expected the usual amusing rookie-screw-up stories and so forth. He sounded odd. I shrugged off a quick chill. “So,” he said. “They’re moving us to another theater.”

That’s what they call war, a theater. I had ironic visions of actors in grease paint. Then I caught up. “ Iraq. Mom, I’m going to Iraq.”

The phone felt hot in my icy hands. My head raged and I swear to you I stepped outside myself, watched myself pace a seven-foot expanse of ceramic tile, and stifled a primal scream.

With deliberate control I said, “You’ll be fine. You’re ok, right?”

Like a duck in a shooting gallery I zipped back and forth across the lanai during the ten minute conversation. I hung up, bubbles of hysteria rising in me. I was sure I would vomit. I cried.

Four weeks to deployment, too quick. One moment he was safe, the next his 4 a.m. calls were backed by exploding mortars and filled with images of dead people, violence and something called IEDs.

I needed television news to be on all day long. I wouldn’t go anywhere in case he called…or God forbid, the ARMY called. Later, I wouldn’t allow news on at all. Couldn’t bear photos of solemn-faced youngsters who would never come home. If a vehicle came down our block, even the mailman who I knew would rumble down the street every afternoon, my mind made it an Army van bringing two regular guys, soldiers, to tell me what no parent ever wants to hear.

I talked compulsively to anyone who would listen. Strangers were compassionate. “Tell Aren thanks.” “We’ll keep him in our prayers.” Care packages were a mission; selecting exactly the right contents, a holy protection.

What felt like centuries crawled by - then rumors that the 2BCT was coming home. Having suffered more casualties than any other unit, they were quietly training their replacements. Two foot lockers, smudged with greasy sand, arrived at our front door in June. I sat on one, and closed my eyes. Hope.

More soldiers died. More injuries. Aren told of a Humvee vaporized below his lookout tower. Restricted to his post, he couldn’t help. My mind boggled at what my son witnessed in this long year of his, so-far, short life.

Summer’s end. Standing at TIA, I concentrated on my breathing. I felt like I had run a long way, for a long time. Looking up, I saw Aren at the top of the escalator.

I don’t remember anything except the hug. He sighed a huge sigh. His boots were on home ground. Typical mom, I’d never considered my kids’ mortality but I knew this was a reprieve for us. I marked a quiet moment for the other moms and offered a mother’s prayer for their soldiers’ peace and safety now. I still can’t watch much of the news.

##

Vietnam Vets Honored at Long Last
By Maryan Pelland

Soldiers returned from Vietnam without celebrations or fanfare. Vietnam veterans had to create their own parades, and they did. First in New York, then in Chicago and San Francisco. Saturday afternoon, in Brooksville, they were vindicated – their government and their community said, on the 30 th anniversary of the end of that war, “Welcome home. And thanks.”

It obviously made a difference. The veterans, now men in their 50’s, once soldiers of 17, 18, 19 years old, sat in the hot Florida sun, remembering another hot sun shining brutally down on Quang Tri, Da Nang, Tay Ninh, Bin Hoa. The cities and villages where they fought a war. About 200 veterans sat on metal chairs with family and friends Saturday afternoon, listening to words of welcome, encouragement and most of all thanks for a job well done.

“Better late, than never,” said Wild Bill Ealey, member of Florida Rolling Thunder Chapter 7, a POW/MIA activist group. “It’s thirty years late. When I got back, I got spit on and called a drug crazed baby-killer. This is good here. It’s time.”

Rolling Thunder is a club of volunteers who say the Vietnam war is not over because there are still an unknown numbers of GIs missing. Bob Fernandez, Jim Stepanek, Rick Parker, Bill Ealey and Bob Avedisian opened the celebration at the Brooksville VFW Hall by riding down the center aisle on decked out motorcycles.

After Springstead High drummers, local Marines and ROTC members installed the U.S. flag, and one for each military branch, in front of the crowd, Rolling Thunder posted the somber black flag of the POW/MIAs. They displayed it with a white cross and a funeral wreath. There wasn’t a sound in the crowd. More than one pair of eyes was damp with tears.

Frank Anderson, U.S. Marine Corps, welcomed the veterans and their guests, saying, “Yours was the ten thousand day war born of the Vietnamese’s desire to be free of their French masters and fueled by communist ideology. You met the call of duty, shouldered your burdens and then returned with valor, courage, and commitment. We all respect and admire and thank you.”

As the National Anthem followed the Pledge of Allegiance, men, women and children stood silently at attention. Veterans in wheel chairs, hands over their hearts, said the words and sang the song. Some struggled to stand and salute. Out of respect.

The veterans listened carefully and they wore their feelings vividly on their shirts, hats and jackets. Slogans, “We will not forget.” “MIA/POW.” “ Vietnam Veteran.” Shirts with every manner of American flag, logo and sentiment. They sat and listened as dignitaries told them what they have needed to hear for three decades. What they say they already knew.

Congresswoman Ginny Brown-Waite, sponsor of the event, presented commemorative coins to those who fought in the war and registered with her office. Those with a DD214 and an honorable discharge. She spoke briefly.

“I felt one of the best ways to honor you was to create this coin,” she said. “The front carries an eagle, depicting freedom you guaranteed all over the world. The back represents your service, facing danger and fear with courage that has made you heroes. We’re proud of you. Your nation and Congress thank you.”

The veterans sat or stood on the blacktop of the parking lot and heard. On many of the faces, a slow, quiet smile appeared. They looked at each other and nodded. Thumbs up signs from some. Raised fists – victory sign from others.

About 57,000 Americans made the ultimate sacrifice in that war. They were remembered and mentioned by all.

One veteran walked the perimeter of the crowd, clutching four green photo albums and a sheaf of papers. He showed those who would stop, and many did, the photos of his unit. Army Platoon Sergeant Merle Hardee, Brooksville, showed his photos and his citations for combat service. “See what war does to young men,” he said. “Today is good. It’s good to recognize what happened. How do I feel? I’ve been numb for 36 years.”

Henry Wright of Brooksville, an Army medic in Long Bien 1967 and 1968, said, “We think about it a lot and we talk about it among ourselves. It’s still there. But today means a lot.” He smiled widely, “It’s right.”

The audience is composed of veterans, almost all men, of varying ages. Some are young, having served in Desert Storm or Operation Iraqi Freedom. Some from the Korean War, still waiting for their own recognition. There are women who are military mothers, wives, sisters. Children whose lives were affected by sacrifices made by the soldiers being honored.

“We were married for just seven months when he went,” said Carol Denham of Spring Hill, nodding at her husband Bob who stood near her, turning his commemorative coin over and over in his hand. “They said he wouldn’t go there, so we married. Then he was going somewhere to train some guys and then he was in Vietnam just like that. When he came home a year later, there was no one to talk to about what happened. There was no help. It wasn’t good.”

She’s proud, and always has been, saying, “I am so happy to see this today. I’m bothered by what’s happening in Iraq, though. I would have thought we’d have learned.”

Bob agreed on all counts, “It’s real good to get this award. It sort of takes away the bad feeling, like somebody cares. I’m not too hot on this Iraq thing. It seems like a rerun.”

As the coins were handed out and shown around, the crowd’s mood lifted visibly. There was joking, soft laughing from various groups and it began to seem like a picnic.

A veteran walked across the lawn, having just received his award. His wife bubbled, “Jack let me see!”

He grinned, held the coin out of reach and teased, “Hey I earned this. You just get a little peek.”

Congresswoman Brown-Waite continued her remarks, echoing sentiment being expressed by others, too, “I want you to keep our current generation of soldiers in your hearts. It would be a shame if they came home to a reception like you received. Let them know you care and appreciate them.

“Hopefully, we have learned from our experience in Vietnam,” the Congresswoman continued, “and not repeat past mistakes.”

Brown-Waite presented coins to each of nearly 200 veterans as they filed by the stage. She listened as some told quick stories, or made comments, or asked for a hug. And she gave them what they needed.

Jim Scott of Brooksville, medic for the Air Force and Army, served from 1969 to 1972. He served, he says, everywhere. He went all over the country picking up victims, wounded, killed-in-action. “I heard the whole dang war,” he said. “Everytime I picked up a casualty, they had a story to tell me if they could. So I heard it all. It was tough. Everyone worked hard, everyone lost something but we didn’t lose the war. The government did.”

Scott said he admires Congresswoman Brown-Waite for her diligent work on behalf of all veterans in Hernando County, and this county has more veterans than almost any other. Scott said, “She doesn’t talk about it a lot, but she is always out there making sure our interests are considered. A real crusader.”

Vietnam Veteran Donald Sloan was just about the last man through the line to receive coins. He wheeled himself across the lawn in a snappy chair and beamed as Brown Waite bent to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for serving,” she told him.

Chaplain William Webb’s convocation prayer summed up the feeling of the afternoon, “We ask that You grant us serenity and peace,” he said. “We remember Vietnam. We remember heat, humidity and rain. We are proud to be Americans. We also remember there are men and women in Iraq. Protect them, and ensure their safe return. God bless the U.S.A.”

Having served there just like the men receiving coins, Chaplain William’s words expressed exactly what many others feel after struggling for so long to get respect and appreciation. It should never happen to another soldier.

##

Boy Trades Television for Hurricane Relief Work
By Maryan Pelland

When you think about American heroes it isn't likely that your first thought is a nine year-old from Spring Hill. But Joseph McClellan, Jr, a fourth grader at Deltona Grade School is a real hero who collected more than 200 boxes of food, clothing and toys for fmailies who lost everything in Hurricane Katrina.

Joseph watched the reports of Hurricane Katrina on TV, like the rest of us, and he simply had to do something. So he got up and did something big.

"I didn't know I could do this much," he said. "I just wanted to send some stuff to people in trouble." And he did, several truck loads over the past few weeks. On Friday, the final load will be put in a van and a truck owned by the Christian Fellowship of Spring Hill and taken to the Gulf Coast by Rev.James E. Roberts and some volunteers.

If Joseph could drive, there's no doubt he'd man the truck himself. As he can't, he is happy running around Brooksville and Spring Hill organizing a campaign worthy of any corporate planning mogul. His mom said, "Neither of the kids has seen TV or video games for three weeks. They just want to go out and make this happen."

Joseph pulled together parents, friends, teachers, classmates and even his parents co-workers to get it done. He gathered boxes and made signs -- "Help Katrina Victims." He set the boxes out in his school, at Duncan Donuts where his mom, Dianne, works and at local shopping centers. He even conscripted his sister, Megan, a kindergartner to help.

"She packs boxes and stuff," he explained. Joseph isn't interested in a flurry of attention for himself, in fact, it's kind of hard to get him to stand still or talk about his project. He's proud of himself, he says, but a little shy about the Hometown Hero award his principal Beverly Chapin is encouraging him to apply for. He just wants to help people.

This month Joseph and Megan spent their allowance money, bu not on te usual movies admissions or toys. They went shopping on behalf of the survivors. They made a thoughtful, logical list and came home with crayons, bandages, nail clippers, disinfectant and anticeptics to be shipped to families who are hurting.

His dad, Joe, says the McClellans got fired up when Dianne's co-worker Gina Callaci suggested hanging banners at a Spring Stead High football game, at area parks, and at local businesses. Donations poured in and the project grew.

"It's wonderful to see what people will do when you encourage them a little. We got donations from restaurants and businesses. We even ended up with temporary storage space for the boxes," Dianne said.

Dianne and Joe agree, as long as there are items donated, they'll help their children pick up the stuff and pack the boxes. They feel it has brought their family closer together and they learned a lot. They have a plan now for hurricane emergencies and neither parents nor children would hesitate to evacuate if that's what was needed.

As for Joseph, this is hard work. He gave up a lot of time, energy and money, would he do it again? "Of course," he said. "If somebody needed it."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contact
Voice (352) 666-7305
virtual@ontext.com