May 29, 2017 By: Juanita Jean Herownself Category: Uncategorized
Welcome to The World's Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc.
My name is Susan DuQuesnay Bankston. I live in Richmond, Texas, in the heart of Tom DeLay's old district. It's nuttier than squirrel poop here.
I am honored and privileged to know Miss Juanita Jean Herownself, hairdresser extraordinary and political maven. Since she does not have time to fiddle with this internet stuff, I type her website for her and you can read it if you want to. If you don't, she truly does not give a big bear's butt.
A lot of what I post here has to do with local politics, but you probably have the same folks in your local government.
This ain't a blog. Blogs are way too trendy for me. This is a professional political organization.
Thank you vets
1Today is for the vets we cannot thank in person….the ones who never came home, including two boys I went to high school with.
Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day – after the Civil War (or War Between the States, for those of us brought up in the South in the ’50’s), that was the day folks decorated the graves of those who had died in the conflict.
Interestingly, “Taps” was composed then (in 1862) as a way to express “lights out”, as well as for military funerals in addition to the 3-volley 21-gun salute. It was never (at least in that time) ordered by the top brass, it simply spread from battalion to battalion as they camped nearby and heard it….both North and South adopted it universally within a very few months.
2And also with you.
3A day of remembrance and thanks. Good day to resolve to be even more kind in casual encounters with others. The cart person at the supermarket for example who might have lost their Mom or Dad to war. Perhaps their brother, sister, aunt, cousin or a good friend. Remembrance and thanks paid forward every day to honor those to whom we owe so much.
4And remember to give to the Disabled Vets, Vietnam Vets etc.
5There is no excuse for any vet to be homeless, starving or sick without health care. Keep the pressure on Congress to fight the ridiculous Republican wealth care and a budget which strips vital aid to the poor, sick and disabled. Trump’s billions to defense don’t trickle down to our men and women in the armed forces, it goes to the contractors.
My father’s air crew was sent to the Pacific in “the war;” Dad was held back to correct a medical condition, and a substitute sent in his position. They were shot down with no survivors.
Because I respect what soldiers have been asked to do, and too many have died doing it, I pass along this poem by unjustly neglected poet and liberal Archibald MacLeish.
It was written for his brother who died in World War I.
Lines for an Internment
written after the poet visited a French military cemetery in 1931
Now it is fifteen years you have lain in the meadow:
6The boards at your face have gone through: the earth is
Packed down and the sound of the rain is fainter:
The roots of the first grass are dead.
It’s a long time to lie in the earth with your honor:
The world, Soldier, the world has been moving on.
The girls wouldn’t look at you twice in the cloth cap:
Six years old they were when it happened:
It bores them even in books: “Soissons besiged!”
As for the gents, they have joined the American Legion:
Belts and a brass band and the ladies’ auxiliaries:
The Californians march in the OD silk.
We are all acting again like civilized beings:
People mention it at tea …
The Facts of Life we have learned are Economic:
You were deceived by the detonations of bombs:
You thought of courage and death when you thought of warfare.
Hadn’t they taught you the fine words were unfortunate?
Now that we understand we judge without bias:
We feel of course for those who had to die:
Women have written us novels of great passion
Proving the useless death of the dead was a tragedy.
Nevertheless it is foolish to chew gall:
The foremost writers on both sides have apologized:
The Germans are back in the Midi with cropped hair:
The English are drinking the better beer in Bavaria.
You can rest now in the rain in the Belgian meadow —
Now that it’s all explained and forgotten:
Now that the earth is hard and the wood rots:
Now you are dead …
Thank you for the poem Rhea.
Grampa was a machine gunner in WW I. He held a position forward of the
trench and the machine gun was so enormous a mule was required to haul it. Several of his mules were shot, but Grampa never was. He was gassed and suffered the affects till his death at age 62 in 1960 when I was 7.
Roger was from the neighboring small town and was the proverbial football star and homecoming king who got a full ride football scholarship to college. Instead he went to Vietnam and returned with no legs.
I respect the people who serve in the military . . . and I hate f**king war.
7Thank you just doesn’t seem enough. Not enough for a friend of 60+ years who still has screaming nightmares and PTSD from Vietnam. Not enough for the thousands who literally left parts of themselves on the battlefield for an illegal war started by a moron cause he could, cause he lied. Not enough for the long lines waiting for treatment at a VA the rethugs think gets too much money. And they want that money to make more weapons to kill more soldiers and further enrich their evil masters. Not enough at all.
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