🏈 It Is Wonderful To Be Americans

[TerryP]

All holidays have particular significance for someone. There are holidays representing defining moments in religion or in a nation’s history or perhaps just whimsy, and in most cases it is the reason for the commemoration that is most important, not the fact that it is a holiday. Kirk McNair - Bamamag.com Editor

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The importance of Americans celebrating Independence Day, as the Fourth of July is known, cannot be overstated. It is recognition of those who did what was necessary to become free and to establish what has become the greatest nation and extraordinary example of a republic.

As for a holiday, July 4 has always been my favorite because of the nature of my work. College sports begin before Labor Day and don’t end until after Memorial Day. There is a good chance I will have something to do on every holiday save today (and here I am writing a story about that!).

It goes back to my days working for the Alabama athletics department in sports information.

Even those holidays such as Thanksgiving and Christmas were work days – getting ready for football and basketball games in late November, traveling to the annual bowl game, usually on Christmas Day. And of course playing a bowl game on or around New Year’s Day more often than not. For those in sports information (Charley Thornton, our secretary Vera Dowdle, and me) and in the training room (Jim Goostree and Sang Lyda), there basically were no holidays from August through May, because we covered all sports.

Paul Bryant was athletics director as well as head football coach, but he trusted some of the administrative duties to his top lieutenant, Sam Bailey. Coach Bailey was the only associate athletics director in the department (there were a couple of assistant athletics directors), unlike today when dozens of assistants and associates have offices in the athletics department.

In those days everyone in the athletics department worked in what was known as Memorial Coliseum, now Coleman Coliseum. Each year in late June we would all receive a Xerox copy of a Sam Bailey memo, saying something along the lines of:

“In recognition of Independence Day, the Athletics Department and Memorial Coliseum will be closed on July 4.”

The memo was dated at the top, and it was obvious that the year had been changed from the previous year. This was pre-computer and White Out was used to erase the old year and whatever typewriter available was used to update the notice.

We have been fortunate enough this year to have friends and family with us for the long weekend marking the celebration. That means too much to eat and drink, boating and swimming or sunning, and fabulous fireworks displays up and down the lake.

Our hope is that you have the opportunity for a wonderful holiday and that we all take at least a moment to remember how fortunate we are to be Americans.

Being Alabama fans is just a bonus.

Happy Fourth of July!
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[TerryP]

So, I'm a little bored this morning...and, considering it is the 4th (and I'm still in the middle of a spring cleaning project started a month or so ago) I came across a few old books. I ran into this poem looking over the contents page...it's a good one for such a day.

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Honoring the Fallen, Quietly​

By Jonathan Evans​

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There are no reporters on the tarmac at Dover Air Force Base.​

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The public is not allowed to witness the military tradition of "receiving the remains."​

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Instead, there are soldiers, roused at dark hours to stand in the confines of what seems like a secret as the dead are brought home.​

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I am one of the soldiers.​

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Nearly every day we learn of another death in Iraq. In our collective consciousness, we tally the statistics of dead and wounded. The number is over 500 now. But none of our conjuring are as real and tangible as the Stars and Stripes folded perfectly over a coffin cradling one of those statistics on his or her way home. It does not matter where somebody stands politically on the war, but I believe that all who have an opinion should know the cost of that opinion. When a soldier dies in a foreign land, his or her remains are returned to the United States for their final rest.​

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The remains arrive in Dover, Del., without fanfare.​

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No family member is present.​

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There are no young children to feel sad or confused.​

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Just a small group of soldiers waiting to do their duty and honor the fallen.​

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"Dover flights" are met by soldiers from the U.S. Army's 3rd Infantry Regiment, the storied Old Guard. They are true soldiers, assigned to an esteemed regiment, but it is a unit defined by polish, not mud. It seems that they quietly long to be tested with their comrades "over there." But it is clear to me as I watch them that they find immense pride in honoring their country this way.​

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Silence.​

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I am a helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army, and it is my job to have the honor guard at Dover at whatever hour a flight arrives. In military-speak, the plane's grim contents are referred to as "HRs"--"human remains." Once the plane arrives, conversation ends.​

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The soldiers form a squad of two even ranks and march out to the tarmac.​

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A general follows, flanked by a chaplain and the ranking representative from the service in which the fallen soldier served.​

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The plane's cargo door opens slowly revealing a cavernous space.​

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The honor guard steps onto a mobile platform that is raised to the cargo bay.​

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The soldiers enter in lock-step formation and place themselves on both sides of the casket.​

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The squad lifts, the soldiers buckling slightly under the weight.​

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The remains have been packed on ice into metal containers that can easily exceed 500 pounds. The squad moves slowly back onto the elevated platform and deposits the casket with a care that evokes an image of fraternal empathy. It is the only emotion they betray, but their gentleness is unmistakable and compelling. The process continues until the last casket is removed from the plane.​

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On bad nights, this can take over an hour.​

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The few of us observing say nothing, the silence absolute, underscored by something sacred.​

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There is no rule or order that dictates it, but the silence is maintained with a discipline that needs no command.​

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The caskets are lowered together to the earth, where the soldiers lift them into a van, one by one.​

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The doors close, and the squad moves out.​

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Just before the van rounds the corner, someone speaks in a voice just above a whisper.​

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We snap to and extend a sharp salute.​

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There are those who would politicize this scene, making it the device of an argument over the freedom of the press. But if this scene were ever to be exploited by the lights and cameras of our "infotainment" industry, it would be offensive.​

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Still, the story must be told.​

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A democracy's lifeblood, after all, is an informed citizenry, and this image is nowhere in the public mind.​

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The men and women arriving in flag-draped caskets do not deserve the disrespect of arriving in the dark confines of secrecy.​

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But it is a soldier's story, and it must be told through a soldier's eyes.​

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In the military, we seldom discuss whether we are for or against the war.​

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Instead, we know intimately its cost.​

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For those of us standing on the tarmac at Dover in those still and inky nights, our feelings have nothing to do with politics.​

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They are feelings of sadness, of empathy.​

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And there is nothing abstract about them.
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