“IT’S NOT ABOUT US”
by OPOVV, ©2016
According to local yore this was the time of strange happenings; things whispered behind closed doors; agitated conversation suddenly silenced by the approach of a stranger.
It was always thus: inhabitants scurried home to lock the livestock in sheds and barns: doors locked and windows shuttered.
Fires banked as everyone huddled in root cellars, as far away from prying eyes as possible. Mirrors covered; weapons at the ready; crucifixes clutched closely to breasts; candles lit; cats and dogs hiding under chairs and tables.
No, that’s not right. Actually it was a bright and sunny day. Elvis singing ‘I Got Lucky‘ was on the radio while steaks were sizzling on the grill. The drinks were cold and the friendships warm. It was, truthfully, the best of times: the future was guaranteed: the major diseases were a subject of yesterday, especially since no new cases of polio* had been seen in years.
Mom raised the kids and baked pies and bread while dad had it all figured out: the last mortgage payment on the house would be made the day he retired.
The kids would make it through high school without getting pregnant or getting someone pregnant. Everyone was off to college except for a few who would join-up and see the world.
Some would go off and fight for Glory, Country and God, but weren’t they disappointed when the neighbors didn’t particularly notice when that little kid who once cut their lawn and shoveled their driveway was mentioned in the local weekly paper for citations and medals he was awarded for saving lives in a little country (Vietnam) far away on the other side of the globe.
And then he came home, back from the war, but it wasn’t like on the cover of Saturday Evening Post magazine. “He was over there” became the secret code to avoid certain subjects; which ones we’re not sure of, but be on your toes, for anything could set him off.
“One of those” became the curse of the times. But then it was always so: “He used to be boisterous but now he’s awfully quiet.” Maybe he’s savoring the “sweet silver sound of the Lark” or the whisper of the breeze through the trees. Maybe he’s reliving today’s sunset or remembering today’s sunrise.
Millions of “maybe’s” and “what if’s”: what if he didn’t bent down to retie his shoe, why, he’d would’ve taken the round that was meant for him, instead of his best buddy. But mostly it was a world of boredom, except for the daydreaming: “O Lord, never again will I spit-shine my shoes by melting the polish with a cigarette lighter; O Lord, no more will I eat Spam and rations; no more sea rations from Korea with tiny bugs, tiny white bugs, little tiny white bugs dead for 20 plus years, for sure.”
And so he made it to the year 2016, knowing he should’ve been dead for the past half a century, ever since he was jumped by two guys who pressed a Bowie knife against his throat.
Upon reflection, we must have a purpose in life, some if only to be a soundboard to warn the obvious: to be the Paul Reveres of the Internet: the world is at war, and the sooner we put it together the better the chances are that we’ll win. For if we can’t even realize that there are those who are in our country who want to see us dead, we’ll never make it. Never.
But it’s not about us; it never is: it’s about the future generations, the great-grandchildren of our Constitution. Even though America is the newcomer on the world’s stage, we still have a role to play, and if we don’t play our part successfully, the philosophical concept of “Free Choice” very well may die forever.
And even though it may sound backwards, we need Israel to show us the light. Israel is in the fight of her life and, by association of the belief in freedom of every person, men and women, we are, too.
A vote for Hillary seals our demise; a vote for Trump at least gives us a fighting chance.
[*In Afghanistan (and other Islamic countries) polio is still alive and well. People entering the USA from those countries have not been vaccinated for polio and other deadly diseases, thereby putting our children, and us, at risk.]