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Posted on 03/31/2011 9:31:17 PM PDT by JustAmy
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Another day of some great humor, Dubya!
Thank you so much!
<br)
Don't You Think???
Looks like a good gig...IF ya don’t mind sleepin’ on the bench! ;)
She flew 19 different types of aircraft, logging enough miles with the Women Airforce Service Pilots to have flown around the world 55 times by her estimate.
She was the subject of a documentary film, 'Wings of Silver.'
CLICK HERE FOR THE REST OF THE STORY
Violet Cowden is seen during World War II, when she was a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots. As civilian pilots under contract to the military, the WASP fliers freed up male pilots for combat missions. Members ferried fighters, bombers and transport planes from factories to military bases and points of embarkation within the U.S. (May 1, 2009)
We can kid about it but it must be a scary life to live. I sure wouldn’t want to have to try and survive that way.
May she R.I.P.
Thanks, Dubya!
Cemetery Watchman
My friend Kevin and I are volunteers at a National cemetery in Oklahoma and put in a few days a month in a ‘slightly larger’ uniform.
Today had been a long, long day and I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey’s and have a cold one. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 16:55. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day. Full dress was hot in the August sun Oklahoma summertime was as bad as ever—the heat and humidity at the same level—both too high.
I saw the car pull into the drive, ‘69 or ‘70 model Cadillac Deville, looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail’s pace.. An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed; she had a cane and a sheaf of flowers—about four or five bunches as best I could tell.
I couldn’t help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly bitter taste: ‘She’s going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier, my hip hurts like hell and I’m ready to get out of here right now!’ But for this day, my duty was to assist anyone coming in.
Kevin would lock the ‘In’ gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might make it to Smokey’s in time.
I broke post attention. My hip made gritty noises when I took the first step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military sight: middle-aged man with a small pot gut and half a limp, in marine full-dress uniform, which had lost its razor crease about thirty minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.
I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with an old woman’s squint.
‘Ma’am, may I assist you in any way?’
She took long enough to answer.
‘Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am..’ (Well, it wasn’t too much of a lie.)
She looked again ‘Marine, where were you stationed?’
’ Vietnam, ma’am.. Ground-pounder. ‘69 to ‘71.’
She looked at me closer. ‘Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
I lied a little bigger: ‘No hurry, ma’am.’
She smiled and winked at me. ‘Son, I’m 85-years-old and I can tell a lie from a long way off.. Let’s get this done. Might be the last time I can do this. My name’s Joanne Wieserman, and I’ve a few Marines I’d like to see one more time..’
‘Yes, ma ‘am. At your service.’
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the flower bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I couldn’t quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC: France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section, stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X.Davidson, USMC, 1943.
She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wieserman, USMC, 1944..
She paused for a second and more tears flowed. ‘Two more, son, and we’ll be done’
I almost didn’t say anything, but, ‘Yes, ma’am. Take your time.’
She looked confused.. ‘Where’s the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my way.’
I pointed with my chin. ‘That way, ma’am.’
‘Oh!’ she chuckled quietly. ‘Son, me and old age ain’t too friendly.’
She headed down the walk I’d pointed at. She stopped at a couple of stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on Larry Wieserman, USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman, USMC, 1970. She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn’t make out and more tears flowed.
‘OK, son, I’m finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home.’
Yes, ma’am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk?’
She paused. ‘Yes, Donald Davidson was my father, Stephen was my uncle, Stanley was my husband, Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in action, all Marines.’
She stopped talking. Whether she had finished, or couldn’t finish, I don’t know. She made her way to her car, slowly and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed it over to Kevin, waiting by the car.
‘Get to the ‘Out’ gate quick.. I have something I’ve got to do.’
Kevin started to say something, but saw the look I gave him. He broke the rules to get us there down the service road fast. We beat her She hadn’t made it around the rotunda yet.
‘Kevin, stand at attention next to the gatepost. Follow my lead.’ I humped it across the drive to the other post
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny’s voice: ‘TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!’
I have to hand it to Kevin; he never blinked an eye—full dress attention and a salute that would make his DI proud.
She drove through that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send-off she deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing duty, honor and sacrifice far beyond the realm of most.
I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.
Instead of ‘The End,’ just think of ‘Taps.’
As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer: ‘Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or overseas. Hold them in your loving hands and protect them as they protect us.’
Let’s all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy
‘In God We Trust.’
Sorry about your monitor; it made mine blurry too!
If we ever forget that we’re one nation under God, then we will be a nation gone under!
One would have to be heartless to not have a blurry screen!
A hanky won't do, I need Bounty each time I read that one.
LOL...that's kinda rough, no?
I keep a large box of kleenex on my desk just in case! :)
Letter From School:
Dear Dad,
$chool i$ really great. I am making lot$ of friend$ and $tudying hard. With all my $tuff,
I $imply can’t think of anything I need, $o if you like, you can ju$t $end me a card,
a$ I would love to hear from you.
Love,Your $on.
A week later....the response from Dad arrived:
Dear Son,
I kNOw that astroNOmy, ecoNOmics and oceaNOgraghy are eNOugh to keep even an hoNOr
student busy. Do NOt forget that the pursuit of kNOwledge is a NOble task and you
can never study eNOugh.
Love, Dad.
LOL
The Art of Dreaming
Dream as free as crystal clear water down a brook
Flowing around the uncaring rocks of life
Let your dreams go unbidden beyond strife
No matter the strange and wondrous path you took
As wide as the universe and as deep as time itself
Dreams have no real limit, unbound and free
With horizons so wide, beyond what you see
They draw me on like a good book on the shelf
Let your dreams be the art in the gallery of your mind
With colors from a true Master’s Palette, so rich and vibrant
And hold not back the scope of each adventure’s flow or cant
For only then, will you, a masterpiece finally, truly, find
When I was growing up, we often sang a song in Sunday school that went like this: “God is good to me! God is good to me! He holds my hand and helps me stand! God is good to me!”
I need to say right away that I believe God is good and He takes delight in doing good things for people. He does indeed hold our hand in times of trouble and helps us stand against the onslaught of life’s difficulties. But I wonder if you’ve ever asked yourself, Why is He good? It certainly is not because we deserve it or because He feels the need to buy our love and allegiance with His benefits.
The psalmist prays for God to bless him so that “[the Lord’s] way may be known on earth, Your salvation among all nations” (Ps. 67:2). God’s daily blessings are proof positive that He is indeed a good God who cares for His own. But how will our world know this about God if we never praise Him for His goodness to us? (v.3).
So, the next time God blesses you, be sure to look for ways to appropriately give Him the credit. Consuming His blessings without communicating His goodness shortchanges the very purpose of His gifts of grace in our lives.
Read: Psalm 67
Hey Mayor,
Where’d they all go, they can’t be asleep this late in the day??? It too early for Spring fever (Isn’t it?)
After buying him, she drives to the nearest town to send her sister a telegram to tell her the news. She walks into the telegraph office, and says, "I want to send a telegram to my sister telling her that I've bought a bull for our ranch. I need her to hitch the trailer to our pickup truck and drive out here so we can haul it home."
The telegraph operator explains that he'll be glad to help her, then adds, "It's just 99 cents a word."
Well, after paying for the bull, the brunette only has $1 left. She realizes that she'll only be able to send her sister one word.
After thinking for a few minutes, she nods, and says, "I want you to send her the word "comfortable". The telegraph operator shakes his head. "How is she ever going to know that you want her to hitch the trailer to your pickup truck and drive out here to haul that bull back to your ranch if you send her the word, "comfortable?'"
The brunette explains, "My sister's blonde. The word's big. She'll read it slow
-- com-for-da-bul."Depends on where everyone lives. Some Texas some as far as California. It’s Easter week too.
Little Sammy's kindergarten class was on a field trip to their local police station. There they saw pictures tacked to a big bulletin board. The label clearly read, "The 10 Most Wanted."
One of the youngsters pointed to a picture and asked if it really was the photo of a wanted person.
"Yes," said the policeman, "the detectives want him very badly."
So Little Sammy asked, while tugging on the man's belt, "Um, mister,
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