The winter sun began to shine brightly over the shivering, yet happy crowd lining up at a local food bank. The crowd was larger than usual today due to the fact that this was Thanksgiving week and the church was rumored to be giving out turkeys. A luxury that many here would forego if not for the kindness of strangers. I put on my dark glasses against the bright morning sun before I climbed out of my old, yet well running and quite loved 96 GMC Safari custom conversion camper van which, due to the fact that:
1.Most of the interior ‘customizations’ are made from brand new materials scavenged from big box store dumpsters.
2.My extremely limited carpentry and fabrication skills
Has caused this classic vintage automobile to be now and forever after known by the moniker
“Ghetto-Fabulous”
(As soon as I find some stick on lettering in a dumpster)
I joined the sinewy line, snaking across the now thawing parking lot. Ahead of me, kind of off to the side of the line engaged in conversation stood an old man, small, yet standing straight as an arrow with his back to me. It wasn’t his posture nor stature that interested me. As I neared him and he turned, I noticed two things.
He was quite a bit older than I’d originally surmised. His face somewhat weathered with smile and laugh lines around his mouth and around two of the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They actually twinkled as he related a story to another.
I also noticed that he wore a dark baseball hat boldly emblazoned in gold letters “Iwo Jima” followed by a unit or corps number. Never being in the military, I know little of such things. Still I had to ask as I approached him if he had indeed been one of those brave yet terrified men that fought in that bloody battle.
He ensured me that he was 96 and had indeed landed on that island so long ago, then proceeded to relate stories of what these men had gone through. He was a good storyteller and I could nearly feel the excitement, hear the waves slapping against the metal hull of the landing craft amid the crack of small arms fire and the thunderous boom of large, shore pounding artillery. Add to that the screams and moans of the hit and wounded, calling out one last time for mother as their life ebbs away on a beach thousands of miles from the safety and sanity of home.
I looked with horror through the old mans eyes as he matter of factly related the incredulous tale of a poor young marine, his arms and legs blown off from a mine, propped up in the sand, tearfully, desperately begging one of the never ending line of his passing comrades to end his life for him.
“Of course no one could do it.” The man said. “We just had to keep on marching past him until a medic came”
The old man ended his recollections about then. But he told me a few things I’ll never forget.
“They called us heroes. We weren’t heroes. We had a job to do and just did what needed to be done”
Then his voice got a bit distant and faded as he said “It never really leaves you, you know, the war”
And as he turned towards me, I noticed a cloud cross those clear azure eyes and the hint of a tear form in one. I tried, but couldn’t come close to imagining the horrors that would haunt one like that for over 70 years. and the incredible strength of character these men possessed to survive such horrors and live to a ripe old age still maintaning a smile on their face.
If I were not humbled by this genuine, soft-spoken, yet upbeat man’s stories as I continued inching along The Line, I soon found out that he was not going through the line for himself, but rather his 28 year old neighbor who had one leg. As we parted company, he looked at his watch and told me that he liked to help out at this early AM food bank because it left his afternoons open to go out and witness for the Lord.
As I returned to my beloved Ghetto Fabulous, I felt honored to have had a chance to speak with this living history lesson who had just taught me more about humility, selflessness, and love for one another than I”d learned in over 50 years, I wished I could be half the man the old man is.
“Now I know why they called them “The greatest generation” still schoolin’ folks at 96. And always doing it with dignity, class, and style. Sir, though I did not get, nor will ever recall your name, I will never forget your lessons. God bless you, and I don’t care what you say, you certainly are a hero to me.
SAD NEW TO TELL 
Diseased Couple
Personal value
