thedrifter
12-24-06, 07:38 AM
Article published Dec 24, 2006
Two words that stir a stream of emotions: ‘Merry Christmas’
Mary Anne, my next-door neighbor here in Hudson, just wished me “Merry Christmas.” These words, punctuated by her laughing blue eyes and infectious smile, stirred recollections of Christmases past.
Now I didn’t go off singing Christmas carols or looking for a red-nosed reindeer, but I did feel something hard to describe. So here I am writing about it.
What is it about Christmas that affects people the way that it does? Most get into a good mood. Some get depressed. Others become sycophants who think it’s offensive. Still others inspire us with their greetings.
I recalled one Christmas in particular while spending last week with a group of Marines. They were evaluating a technical manual my colleague and I had generated.
I couldn’t help noticing their personalities were as diverse as any group of civilians, but the comparison ended there. These men were physically and mentally inured to hardships most civilians can only imagine.
Certainly, those rugged physiques spoke to endless hours of endurance training, a fact made more obvious by my middle-aged paunch. Even in my best years, though, I was never their equal.
All had served two tours in Iraq. Like most battle-tested veterans, they related little about their experiences. However, in the course of bantering, as most GI’s are prone to do, the bravado and joking included references to pulling another tour without getting their “(bleep’s) blown off.”
The military tradition of treating death irreverently goes as far back in history as the Roman legions. The precept dictates that if you pretend you aren’t concerned, you won’t be concerned. Besides, not doing this might diminish your standing in the eyes of your comrades. This is the culture in which I was once immersed.
During the Vietnam era I was a broadcast engineer (see bobwertzcm.tripod.com/AFT...t12.html). I traveled all over Southeast Asia for the American Forces Radio and Television Service. Some of our transmitters sat on hills overlooking remote Green Beret outposts and small regular army detachments. When equipment malfunctioned, these troops had no diversion from their difficulties. That affected morale. Someone like me was dispatched to fix the problem.
That had its rewards. Local commanders would often send a Huey helicopter out to pick me up; then, they’d provide escorts up to the equipment locations. Once programming was back on the air, I was frequently treated to a round of drinks.
On such a trip, one of my escorts was a specialist in rank. For the life of me I can’t remember his name or which base it was. There were so many that they just run together in my head. Even so, I recall his face clearly.
Anyway, we all killed that evening imbibing in what passed for an officer-enlisted man’s club. I won’t say any more. The topics of conversation and ribald songs would violate the sensitivity standards of this paper. So, suffice it to say these were rough men with the same sense of bravado I observed in the Marines last week.
The next morning I left on a chopper with the queen of all headaches. Somehow I managed to keep from falling out of the side seat while the ground grew smaller beneath me.
Months passed, and that Christmas Eve I was ordered to
make another one of these trips. Although unhappy about it, I’d caught a milk run into Bangkok from where I was to meet another aircraft for the second leg.
While walking through the crowded flight operations center, I recognized a familiar face. That same specialist was coming toward me in his dress greens, a sign he was bound for the CONUS – military-speak for the continental United States. That he was being pushed in a wheelchair did not bode well. Getting closer revealed something wrong with his eyes. They looked milky.
I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. As the wheelchair bumped me, the medic pushing him apologized. After I replied with “no problem,” the specialist turned toward me with those sightless eyes gazing upward to nowhere. Not knowing who I was, but still showing bravado, still defying adversity, he said, “Merry Christmas.”
Over these many years hence, I’ve experienced few Christmas seasons in which I did not recall this incident. With it comes the guilt of feeling relieved it wasn’t me in that wheelchair, but also I remain amazed that this soldier, who had every reason to be bitter, still embraced the spirit of Christmas. That says something about the effect of this special season.
When you break it all down, Christmas is a mood. It’s a pleasant state of expectation. Spreading that mood offers others a respite from their concerns. Censorship ruins this mood. That’s why I’m compelled yearly to criticize corporate stores like Lowe’s or Best Buy. They feed their greed with Christmas yet chain the tongues of their employees with prohibitions against mentioning its name.
Fortunately, there are still many people like Mary Anne. Her greeting was an act of kindness, and it had the desired effect. Only a cretin would assign any offense to it. So, with that in mind, I pass it onto you: Merry Christmas.
Ellie
Two words that stir a stream of emotions: ‘Merry Christmas’
Mary Anne, my next-door neighbor here in Hudson, just wished me “Merry Christmas.” These words, punctuated by her laughing blue eyes and infectious smile, stirred recollections of Christmases past.
Now I didn’t go off singing Christmas carols or looking for a red-nosed reindeer, but I did feel something hard to describe. So here I am writing about it.
What is it about Christmas that affects people the way that it does? Most get into a good mood. Some get depressed. Others become sycophants who think it’s offensive. Still others inspire us with their greetings.
I recalled one Christmas in particular while spending last week with a group of Marines. They were evaluating a technical manual my colleague and I had generated.
I couldn’t help noticing their personalities were as diverse as any group of civilians, but the comparison ended there. These men were physically and mentally inured to hardships most civilians can only imagine.
Certainly, those rugged physiques spoke to endless hours of endurance training, a fact made more obvious by my middle-aged paunch. Even in my best years, though, I was never their equal.
All had served two tours in Iraq. Like most battle-tested veterans, they related little about their experiences. However, in the course of bantering, as most GI’s are prone to do, the bravado and joking included references to pulling another tour without getting their “(bleep’s) blown off.”
The military tradition of treating death irreverently goes as far back in history as the Roman legions. The precept dictates that if you pretend you aren’t concerned, you won’t be concerned. Besides, not doing this might diminish your standing in the eyes of your comrades. This is the culture in which I was once immersed.
During the Vietnam era I was a broadcast engineer (see bobwertzcm.tripod.com/AFT...t12.html). I traveled all over Southeast Asia for the American Forces Radio and Television Service. Some of our transmitters sat on hills overlooking remote Green Beret outposts and small regular army detachments. When equipment malfunctioned, these troops had no diversion from their difficulties. That affected morale. Someone like me was dispatched to fix the problem.
That had its rewards. Local commanders would often send a Huey helicopter out to pick me up; then, they’d provide escorts up to the equipment locations. Once programming was back on the air, I was frequently treated to a round of drinks.
On such a trip, one of my escorts was a specialist in rank. For the life of me I can’t remember his name or which base it was. There were so many that they just run together in my head. Even so, I recall his face clearly.
Anyway, we all killed that evening imbibing in what passed for an officer-enlisted man’s club. I won’t say any more. The topics of conversation and ribald songs would violate the sensitivity standards of this paper. So, suffice it to say these were rough men with the same sense of bravado I observed in the Marines last week.
The next morning I left on a chopper with the queen of all headaches. Somehow I managed to keep from falling out of the side seat while the ground grew smaller beneath me.
Months passed, and that Christmas Eve I was ordered to
make another one of these trips. Although unhappy about it, I’d caught a milk run into Bangkok from where I was to meet another aircraft for the second leg.
While walking through the crowded flight operations center, I recognized a familiar face. That same specialist was coming toward me in his dress greens, a sign he was bound for the CONUS – military-speak for the continental United States. That he was being pushed in a wheelchair did not bode well. Getting closer revealed something wrong with his eyes. They looked milky.
I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. As the wheelchair bumped me, the medic pushing him apologized. After I replied with “no problem,” the specialist turned toward me with those sightless eyes gazing upward to nowhere. Not knowing who I was, but still showing bravado, still defying adversity, he said, “Merry Christmas.”
Over these many years hence, I’ve experienced few Christmas seasons in which I did not recall this incident. With it comes the guilt of feeling relieved it wasn’t me in that wheelchair, but also I remain amazed that this soldier, who had every reason to be bitter, still embraced the spirit of Christmas. That says something about the effect of this special season.
When you break it all down, Christmas is a mood. It’s a pleasant state of expectation. Spreading that mood offers others a respite from their concerns. Censorship ruins this mood. That’s why I’m compelled yearly to criticize corporate stores like Lowe’s or Best Buy. They feed their greed with Christmas yet chain the tongues of their employees with prohibitions against mentioning its name.
Fortunately, there are still many people like Mary Anne. Her greeting was an act of kindness, and it had the desired effect. Only a cretin would assign any offense to it. So, with that in mind, I pass it onto you: Merry Christmas.
Ellie