One Soldier at A Time -- The Dash

Saturday, July 29, 2006 One Soldier at a Time - The Dash - Thanks Mandy! Warning -- Sappy -- But God Bless Our Troops and Our Friends! One of my closest friends -- since the 4th grade!! -- sent me an email a while back with a poem by someone named Linda Ellis. The poem, as emailed, was a video attachment. I admit, I am rather cynical and jaded, but it seems I do have a heart buried somewhere under that crafted cynicism. I was touched. If you read the entire correspondence between Mandy and myself, including the terribly sappy poem, you might see why even someone as steel-hearted as me could have a chink in the old armor. -------------------------------------------------------- From: mandy Sent: Wednesday, July 26, 2006 2:50 PMTo: mandySubject: FW: The Dash I read of a man who stood to speakat the funeral of his friend.He referred to the dates on her tombstonefrom the beginning...to the end.He noted that first came the date of her birthand spoke of the second with tears,but he said that what mattered most of allwas the dash between those years.For that dash represents all the timethat she spent alive on earth,and now only those who loved herknow what that little line is worth.For it matters not, how much we own;the cars, the house, the cash.What matters is how we live and loveand how we spend our dash.So think about this long and hard,are there things you'd like to change?For you never know how much time is left.(You could be at "dash mid-range.")If we could just slow down enoughto consider what's true and real,and always try to understandthe way other people feel.And...be less quick to anger,and show appreciation moreand love the people in our liveslike we've never loved before.If we treat each other with respect,and more often wear a smile,remembering that this special dashmight only last a little while.So, when your eulogy is being readwith your life's actions to rehash...would you be pleased with the things they have to sayabout how you spent your dash?...Linda Ellis ----------------------------------------------------- From: Victoria Sent: Friday, July 28, 2006 2:01 AMTo: 'mandy'Subject: RE: The Dash Movie Thanks for sending this to me. I just now had a chance to really look at it. I was in Tucson this past week for the bar exam. That turned out to be a little insignificant to me, though. In my hotel, we had a LOT of National Guard people that had been called up, first to take care of the border problems in southern Arizona. Eventually, they'll go to Iraq. Anyway, I got there Saturday so I could get settled in (the exam was Tuesday and Wednesday). I was down in the bar having dinner and studying on pretty much every night to make sure I would actually try to eat and to keep myself awake. I seemed to somehow adopt this little Army kid -- well, he adopted me. (D. is his name). And, he's technically not a kid -- he's 24, but he's just SO young and seemed a little lonely and out of place. He's from a small town in Wisconsin (population 305!), and really hasn't been anywhere. So Tucson, and especially Nogales, which is the bordertown to Mexico (where the illegals make the run for the border, and I don't mean Taco Bell) is a WHOLE different world for him. So I adopted him as my kid brother and we hung out each evening, and lunchtime when we could, and talked and swapped stories, and just bonded in general. This is a longer story than I can help, but I'm getting there -- eventually. So, after the first day, D. has just become, at 6 plus-foot tall, 190-lb, my kid. We're sitting there in the bar the other night, after I'm trying to make myself eat (combination of tiredness and apathy at law by this time . . .). A couple of his older guys come over to just hang out (by older, I mean in their 40s. Have you ever noticed that career military guys just seem to age about 10 years faster than other men? I've thought that for a long time . . . but, I digress). So, anyway, his boss, I believe, is a Sergeant of some sort and a man I've never seen sober. He comes over to our little happy group and announces that they've identified a guy that had been killed by "what they believe to be friendly fire" either earlier that day or the day before. Now, my kid is from a small Wisconsin town. But, apparently the entire state of Wisconsin only has about 4,000 actual population if you exclude the college students. And D. seems to be at least acquainted with all of the regulars. Anyway, it turns out that D., my kid, actually knows the guy that was killed. And, to put it in the Sergeant's not so delicate terms, the truck they were riding in was hit by a mortar or RPG or some kind of ugly war thing you hear about on CNN but don't have to process because, frankly, we don't get hit by them, and was completely shredded. At this point, I'd had two glasses of wine and some soup, was exhausted, and I couldn't help it, I just started shedding very quiet tears just thinking of someone like my kid over there. D. was sitting right across the table from me and he took my hand. I told him it was nothing, it was just that damned salt off of his margarita. The other older guys (two that were very kind) were trying to make sure I was ok, but sometimes kindness just makes it worse, if that makes sense. I was ok. Really. You know me. Just a bit after that, it really hit D., my kid. He just went so suddenly from happy and laid back to withdrawn and silent. He told us he was going up to his room to drink a bottle of tequila and he'd be back. I did not take this as a good sign, even though I knew he'd been hitting the tequila pretty heavily since he arrived in Tucson. I didn't want to ask his superiors to go up there (it's still the Army, I don't care what they say about their new sensitivity crap). I ended up pulling rank on one of the even younger guys who is a friend of D's (B. is also a very sweet young man) to go check on him. He did, and came back and said that he (meaning D.) was downing the tequila like a sailor, but he didn't seem like he was about to pass out for the night. (I told him to use specific words with me if anyone else was around -- I'm sure you get it. He is a quick guy and knew exactly what I meant and followed it to the letter). Sure enough, D. was back downstairs in just a couple of minutes. He was still in a funk. His older bosses went over and tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't talk. I gave him a brief breathing time. Then I went over and sat down with him. I don't really remember what I said, but it was in the form of a really hard emotional kick in the ass. I managed to get through to him, and he broke down and started crying in my arms. He was shaking and crying and talking and just letting go. I just held him, kissed his nearly bald little military head, and told him it was going to be okay, I was right there. It was okay to be angry, and hurt, and to just need someone to lean on sometimes. There was just nothing wrong with crying because your friend died and anyone who said otherwise was a dumbass. It went on for just a little while, but then it seemed to work it out of him. I don't remember when I'd felt so relieved. Afterward, he went to the bathroom (bladder the size of a walnut, that kid). Three of those older guys came up and were thanking me for getting through to him. All I could tell them was if they didn't back off me, and if they made me cry, I would kick every single one of their asses. They laughed at me, as they were supposed to do. They got the message. I didn't do for them. I did it for D. But, I guess, D. being all of us in a way, I did for all of us. So they were welcome. But, still, if they tried to make me cry, I would SO take them down. Well, everything ended for the night just fine. B, D's friend, (at my command -- should've been an officer . . .hehehe) tucked D safely into bed, took away the tequila bottle, and reported back to me that D was in bed and asleep and without access to liquor. I was satisfied that my work for the evening was done. Of course, it was daylight by then . . . So, aside from the fact that I got a grand total of 55 minutes of sleep before my exam the following day, I think I handled that situation pretty well. But, you know what, if it came down to me passing another stupid state bar exam (that I can always take again), and helping out a lonely young soldier who's far from home . . . hell, far from anything AT ALL familiar and who could be sent on to Iraq, literally, anytime now . . . if I could spend a few hours giving that boy some just plain, simple human comfort . . . I'd a whole LOT rather have something like that in there on MY DASH than, hey, "she passed another freaking bar exam." But anyway, thanks for having the patience for getting though that story. I just thought you should know that sending that email when you did, even though I didn't get a chance to read it right away, was impeccable timing on your part. I may have screwed up an exam, but that means nothing if I had some effect on helping that boy's life. THAT'S dash material, I think! Thanks for reminding me of that. THAT IS A DASH FOR YOU! ------------------------------------------------------------------- OMG, that is heart wrenching. You should be very proud of the dash you made that day; and you're right -- no bar exam can match what you accomplished that evening. May you continue to add more dash marks to your life and the life of others. I definitely feel a sense of priority and warmness from reading this. Dash on, dandymandy