This date in history

by GunRights4US On February 23, 1945 Joe Rosenthal snapped what is arguably the most famous photograph in history: The Marines raising the US flag over Mt Suribachi on Iwo Jima.



Contrary to popular belief, the flag rasing did NOT signify the end of the battle. Bloodly fighting raged on for another four weeks after that point. For many years the Marine's KIAs were misrepresented as 4,500. The actual number of Marine dead was closer to 8,000. The Japanese garrison of approximately 23,000 was almost entirely destroyed.

Today, the island has been returned to the Japanese government. Far from the beaten path it only hosts a Japanese naval detachment and a weather station. Japanese visitors make constant trips to the island collecting and burning the remains of their dead. Iwo has many monuments constructed by both Japan and the US, but only the Japanese monuments are maintained. The American monuments on Iwo are just like so many other WWII American monuments across the Pacific; they've been forgotten and allowed to fall into disrepair. Americans for the most part neither know or care what happened here some 65 years ago.

I have a friend who served in the Navy a few years ago, and he told of visiting Iwo Jima once. He and some friends made the climb up to the top of Suribachi to see the statue of the Marines raising the flag. According to his report: the spot reeks of urine.

Although it's not "historical", it certains means something to ME: My father died this morning in 1988. He was a US Navy CB who served on Saipan and Okinawa during WWII. Gone... but never ever forgotten.

I settled the shotgun issue for all time

by GunRights4US The father we both loved died nearly 22 years ago. And the old man owned an Eastern Arms shotgun that he purchased around 1934 for the princely sum of $10.00. It was a single-shot break-open 12 gauge with a 34 inch barrel. The front site bead was missing. The firing pin had to be pushed back in with your finger. The stock showed signs of burns from a campfire it sustained in the late 1930’s. And usually it came apart into two separate pieces when you broke it open. Oh and the fore-stock would fall off at the drop of a hat.

For these reasons, and out of respect for the memory of Dad, neither my brother nor I had fired it since his death. But that shotgun was his prized possession! Being of poor backwoods stock, that gun had spent long years putting meat on his family’s table. Daddy’s death elevated that old shotgun almost to the status of a holy relic in mine and my brother’s eyes.

When Daddy died, there was no argument between us over which one got his shotgun. Neither one of us needed it, but both of us coveted it. So thus began a twenty year odyssey of that shotgun moving back and forth from my house to my brother’s house - and back again. Each time I would visit him, I would pick up the shotgun as I made my way to door, and say something along the lines of “Well THIS is going home where it belongs!” No argument. And then the process would be reversed when Brother visited me. He’d come for a visit and leave with the shotgun; a smart-assed retort on his lips as he walked out the door. Again…no argument.

This ritual continued for upwards of fifteen years. But about five years ago my brother changed the rules of the game. As I got ready to leave his house to drive home one day, he handed me the shotgun and said “Son…this will end up in your hands one day soon anyway. I’d rather know that you had it, than take a chance on it getting away from us after I’ve gone.”

So for the last five years or so it has sat unmoved in my gun vault.

When my brother died last week, it occurred to me that I knew exactly what I wanted to do with that old shotgun. I called my sons from my brother’s house and asked that they bring the shotgun with them when they came for the funeral. And then I had a few quiet words with the funeral director off to one side. “This isn’t for presentation sake” I told him as I gave him the shotgun thru a side door. After all the family and friends had left the viewing room, and before they secured the casket, I had them put Daddy’s old shotgun inside. It was no one’s business there except for me and my brother.

I specified that the casket would not be opened at graveside, and so I confirmed with the funeral director that he’d done as I asked. With a big ole grin he said “Don’t you worry…I got it crooked in his arm just like he was heading out for the swamp.”

It made me feel good to think that Tuffy was going through the Pearly Gates with a shotgun in one hand, and a rebel flag in the other! I hope he enjoys hunting with Daddy over there on the other shore.

Testament

by GunRights4US One of the side effects of being born to older parents is the fact that my only brother was almost 19 years older than I am. My mother had him by a previous marriage, but when she was pregnant with me, she and our father decided that he should have our surname so my dad adopted him. I was probably 12 years old before I learned all this.

That he was technically a half brother meant absolutely nothing as far as I was concerned, and my father felt the same way. His relationship with my father and I was every bit as strong as if he was my twin! I pretty much thought the sun rose and set in the palm of his hand. And he worshipped the ground my father walked on.

My brother’s first name was James, but when he was born it had been a difficult birth for both mother and child and he looked pretty bruised up. The nurse commented that he looked like he’d had to fight to get born and she pronounced him “a little Tuffy”. The name stuck – even if he personally hated it. Try as he might, everyone in the family knew him as Tuffy; everybody except me! I called him brother, and he called me “son”. Non-family members knew him as Jim.

The degree of mentoring and oversight I got from him was very akin to that given by a parent. He was involved in my life far more than your typical Big Brother. When I was preparing to join the Marines at the tender age of 17 – I discussed it with Brother first. When I decided I was going to marry the girl I was dating, I talked it over with Brother. Every major decision of my life, I ran it by him. In all things he was counselor, mentor, teacher, coach, confidante, and best friend.



For the last 48 years, except for the months I spent in boot camp or overseas, I talked to him by phone or email nearly every single day. There was one time in 1978 that he and I argued over something, and I didn’t speak to him for about a day. And then about two weeks ago he and I had some harsh words in an exchange of emails. Something I said must have really cut to the quick because he stopped taking my calls and refused to answer my emails. With him being in poor health I fretted that something bad might happen while we were feuding, and …well… it did.

Last week he had a lady friend from Canada visiting with him for a few days. He was adamant that no one else answer his phone if it rang, and so she was surprised Thursday morning around 9:45 when the phone rang and he didn’t pick it up. She went in to check on him and found him dead in bed of a heart attack.

I rushed up to Georgia that same day, and now I’ve done the crying, managed the funeral arrangements, and begun the process of settling his estate. But the business of making things right with the brother I dearly loved, must go undone until Judgment Day. The pain of losing him is made all the more bitter because of my foolishness and sharp tongue.

Know this my friends: Life is just too damn short to argue and fuss with people you love. Harsh words…once said…can never be un-said. They’re like nails driven into wood, even if pulled out – the holes remain! In the New Testament, James I believe, it says: For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appeareth for a little time and then vanishes away.

How true that is. How very true.

Taking a break – on the river

by GunRights4US My boys and I are heading up to the St Mary's river to camp this weekend. The weather promises to be gorgeous, and its been too long since we've done this. Once upon a time when the boys were little we did this several times a year. Now that the oldest is married and has a young'un on the way, and the youngest is working on his college degree, this happens less and less. So I am eagerly looking forward to some time with them. As you would expect the blog will be a bit slow til I get back late Sunday. But here's some pics of the area we're going to.