In the beginning                                                                                       

It's the summer of 1966, Hang on Sloopy was on the top ten, Knock three times on the ceiling was being played to death and I was bored as hell with being a Stateside Marine. I had been in the Corps for a little over a year and fresh off the boat from a cruise of the Mediterranean . The spit and polish of being a garrison Marine sucked after the relaxed atmosphere of the Med cruise. So I did what any red blooded American boy would do to get out of all the pomp and circumstance, I volunteered for duty in Vietnam. Not only would I get out from under the gung ho lifer types but I would receive a 30-day leave as an added bonus. My orders were cut and I went on leave to a little New England town called Lebanon, New Hampshire. I looked forward to Spending time with my family there, although I don’t remember too much. Being young and full of piss and vinegar it was party time most of the time. It’s truly amazing how many free drinks a man can get when he is off to fight a war and I played Johnny goes marching to war to the hilt. I hate to admit it but I enjoyed every minute of sympathy I could get. I didn’t understand then why people were being so nice to me, but it sure as hell rang clear as soon as my sorry ass stepped off the plane in country.. 

One thing I do remember is that I went to say goodbye to my Grandfather. We visited for a good long time and talked of all the wild and crazy things he and I both did while I was growing up. Gramp lived with us from the time I could toddle on up till the time I staggered through my high school graduation. He helped raise this Marine and I really loved that old man.  I thought the sun rose and set on him, he was my life long friend . We reminisced, laughed  and just plain shot the bullshit for hours then as always all good things must come to an end and the time came when we had to say goodbye. My Grand Father and I stood on the gray cracked sidewalk in front of his apartment. I hugged him and tearfully and got into my car to drive away. As I looked in my rear view mirror I caught the visage of a thin, tall, proud gray haired man dressed in a pair of  loose fitting gray slacks, a green  flannelled shirt and a dark gray cardigan sweater. He was wiping the tears away and waving goodbye as he stood there sobbing in the street. I had grown up with him and he was more than just my  Granddad, He was the one person in my life with whom I could share anything with and I was going to miss him dearly.

Little did I know this would be the last time I would see my Grandfather alive. He was killed while I was away serving my tour of duty in Vietnam. Here I was in a war zone and a police cruiser hit my Granddad after he stepped off a curb in Podunk USA. Of course I didn't learn of this until after the funeral two or three weeks after the fact. My parents never notified me until then. I was sitting in another shit hole in Vietnam when I got the letter from home. I sat there and wondered why I wasn't told earlier, I could have gotten thirty days bereavement to pay my respects. I loved that old man and I was some pissed when I wrote my parents.

Hell I should have been used to this after all, they sold the house I grew up in while I was making the Med-cruise. How did Find out? I read it in the hometown newspaper somewhere off the coast of Africa. Can you imagine that, sifting through the pages of a town rag newspaper a thousand miles from home and then like a like a mule kick right on the nuts I see a big sold sign pasted across a picture of the house I grew up in. This gave a new meaning to sharing a moment with my friends. I was just tad vocal and expressed myself superbly with utmost feeling. After the grand finale I then wondered where the hell home was. Lo and be-fucken-hold I received a letter a week or so after I got the second hand news that I was no longer an orphan of the streets. I learned that they had moved to Hanover NH. All I could say was “ You gotta be shitting me,” I got drunk, forgot my name, but at least I knew what port I was in, what ship I was on and where my bunk was. Just being grateful for the little things. 

Never did forgive em’ for not telling me about my Granddad.

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