Old Glory

My dad always hung a flag on the front of whatever house we lived in, with a heavy metal holder fixed onto either brick or siding, and the flag attached to a sturdy wooden pole. I loved being near it on a windy day so I could hear it snap and rustle as it danced with each gust. Even without the wind I was drawn to its crisp beauty: the bright red and white stripes and the field of stars on a sharp blue background. Dad brought it in every night before the sun went down and he put it back up first thing in the morning when he went outside to get the morning paper and milk delivery. When it rained and Dad wasn’t home, Mom would run out and bring it into the garage. I thought it was because the colors would run and turn everything pink like that time Mom washed my sister’s red dress in with our towels and underwear. I didn’t know exactly what the flag stood for, or why it was treated with reverence, or what the colors, stripes and stars meant, but I did know, even as a little one, that my Dad told me he fought for it once, and that was why he saluted it like the soldiers I saw in the movies. I wondered how big that guy was that Dad beat up for the flag, but knowing what he did for it made me proud of it.

Then when I began going to school I was pleased to see that at the beginning of the school day all my fellow classmates and I stood beside our chairs, put a hand on our chest, and recited the Pledge of Allegiance. To this day, fifty years later, I can still recall those words and imagine myself in the middle of a class full of kids, looking at the flag hanging on a tall pole in the corner, hand over my heart and saying those words along with everyone else, teacher included: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” Every single time I said it I felt a swelling in my heart, and even though I didn’t understand much about it, I believed I was beginning to know how my Dad felt. During the course of school I learned all about the flag, how it began with only thirteen stars, and how Betsy Ross made one for George Washington with the stars in a circle. The basic design of the flag stayed the same except that new stars were sewed on it when a new state entered the union. A teacher told our class once that the white on the flag represented innocence and purity, red represented valor and courage, and blue represented justice and vigilance. The stars, while signifying the number of states in the union, also stood for a new constellation in the sky, a new nation that would last forever. The stripes reminded us of the original thirteen colonies that declared their independence from the tyranny of England. As a school child I began to gain insight on the powerful significance the flag had on us all.

I remember seeing the funeral procession of President Kennedy on our television and cried when I saw the flag draped on his coffin, and when his little boy saluted the flag like a soldier. We all cried that day, even Dad. The image of a horse being led with boots backward in the stirrups still strike a deep chord with me today. I thought the President fought for his flag, too, and even though it looked like he had lost, he still got it.

My dad died when I was fifteen, just when I was beginning to learn from him and from school about the Second World War. He was in the Navy on a ship that went around hunting Japanese submarines. He told me the most beautiful thing he ever saw were depth charges going off in the night. I never got to hear all his stories, not only because he died, but because he said I was too young to know such things. But I learned plenty about it in my history classes, how it was for many a living hell, and I understood why he never told me some things. The image of those soldiers raising the flag at Iwo Jima struck a deep and resounding chord in me because I knew if my Dad had been there he would have helped, too, because he loved the flag so much. At fifteen and fatherless, I vowed to join the military to honor my father, my flag and my country. I joined Naval Junior ROTC in high school and immersed myself in military culture.

As soon as I graduated I went to the local recruiter and joined the Army. That began a nine year love affair with the military, and I matured quickly. I came to understand honor, discipline, respect, courage, responsibility, accountability and dedication for myself, my fellow brothers in arms, my chain of command, my family, my community, my nation and its leaders, and of course the stars and stripes. I volunteered every chance I got to be on flag duty, and without fail, I felt a lump in my throat and swell in my chest whenever I handled it. By then the flag represented freedom, it stood for liberty, it flew in honor of those patriots who fought and died for the United States of America, it was the face of my dad saluting it as the morning sun shined on his face, it was hung over the caskets of great men, it was everything good and right and noble.

One of the most incredible moments of my entire life was when I served in a funeral detail for a World War Two vet. I remember afternoon light filtering through the trees on a soft breeze, how incredibly quiet it was there in the cemetery even though there were dozens in attendance ringed around us solemnly. We lifted the flag from the burnished wood and folded it properly, keeping it taut as we went. My fellow soldier began to create a triangle with the flag and slowly walked it toward me as I held the end of it. With a firm but gentle tuck, I held it in my white gloved hands and very slowly and deliberately went to his grey-haired widow who sat beside the grave. I bent down, handed her the flag and looked into her grateful weepy eyes, and said “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” I then stood up and, very, very slowly gave the best salute I had ever given. Reader, I will remember that service with tears in my eyes for the rest of my life.

Now, whenever I see the flag, all that I have told you sweeps through me, not consciously, but in the very marrow of my being, and I always have the urge to stop and salute it. I will respect and guard the dignity of my country’s flag with all I have, and that is a bonafide promise. There are millions of others that feel just as I do, too, who are more than willing to fight and die for what that flag represents. Those who hate the United States, those who despise our freedom, those who want to destroy our country, they need to understand that as long as there is just one American standing, the stars and stripes will fly. They will never, never be able to destroy liberty, and they will never, never bring Old Glory down. It has been paid for with the blood of patriots and heroes and it is here to stay.

The Inevitable

People who know me at all would testify that I am a glass-half-full sort of guy, the fellow who sees the silver lining in the darkest cloud, the one who can find something to be grateful for regardless of the situation. (“Every Sunday morning Mrs. McRey gets up from her spot in Sunday School class and goes to the bathroom at least half a dozen times to urinate. How distracting!” “Thank God she doesn’t have chronic gas.”) These past few months, though, have brought to light a great number of things broken in our government and society, and it gets more and more difficult to put a positive spin on them.  If I were a naysayer, I’d have a sore throat from saying Nay all the time. As tempting as it is to merely point out flaws, I want to try to at least submit ideas on how to fix the things that are broken, and even if solutions elude me, I challenge others to come up with their own. Today I’d like to talk specifically to this country’s servicemen and women, and to the growing number of veterans who will one day, inevitably, leave their loved ones with the burden of making final arrangements upon their death.

I recently had a close friend pass away, Mr. Charles Snell. He was a World War Two vet, fought in the Philippines, and even earned a Bronze Star. He was a successful inventor, writer, artist and engineer who lived to the ripe old age of 92. He was, however, under the assumption that because he was a war vet, he automatically qualified for a free military funeral and burial, so he did nothing in the way of planning for his afterlife care. I befriended Mr. Snell in May of 2012 and discovered he had no family, was barely surviving on his own and was being fleeced by a neighbor woman. I immediately took him under my wing (he would have said it was the other way around) and our friendship blossomed. We had much in common, not the least being fellow veterans. Mr. Snell did not like to talk much about what preferences he had upon his death, but like him, I thought the Veterans Administration had a mechanism that would kick in upon his death that would handle all the arrangements.

In February of this year Mr. Snell fell and broke his hip, and he had to move into a nursing home. The facility cost $6,000 a month, and the only way to afford to live there was to apply for Medicaid, which required him to liquidate his entire life and become a pauper. So it was that this was his status when he did pass away. I immediately went to the VA benefits coordinator to get the ball rolling and was given a sobering shock: The VA does offer partial reimbursement for some aspects of a veteran’s afterlife care IF they qualify under a strict list of criteria. In other words, unless Mr. Snell fell into a certain narrow set of rules, he would only qualify for a flag and a tiny foot marker.

I couldn’t believe it. I refused to believe it. Here was a man who risked his young life to fight for our freedom in a hostile foreign country, and upon his death only received a piece of stone and a flag. I went to the VA website and searched for their burial and plot internment allowances. Here is the webpage: http://www.benefits.va.gov/BENEFITS/factsheets/burials/Burial.pdf, and this is what I found:

 “You may be eligible for a VA burial allowance if:

• you paid for a Veteran’s burial or funeral, AND
• you have not been reimbursed by another government agency or some other source, such as the deceased Veteran’s employer, AND
• the Veteran was discharged under conditions other than dishonorable.

In addition, at least one of the following conditions must be met:

• the Veteran died because of a service-related disability, OR
• the Veteran was receiving VA pension or compensation at the time of death, OR
• the Veteran was entitled to receive VA pension or compensation, but decided not to reduce his/her military retirement or disability pay, OR
• the Veteran died while hospitalized by VA, or while receiving care under VA contract at a non VA facility, OR
• the Veteran died while traveling under proper authorization and at VA expense to or from a specific place for the purpose of examination, treatment, or care, OR
• the Veteran had an original or reopened claim pending at the time of death and has been found entitled to compensation or pension from a date prior to the date of death, OR
• the Veteran died on or after October 9, 1996, while a patient at a VA–approved state nursing home.”

Mr. Snell did not fit into any of those little boxes. He had been rendered penniless by the very government he fought for almost 70 years ago, and now upon his death was required to come up with $1900 for a simple cremation or become a ward of the county, where he would be placed in a cheap wooden casket and buried in a pauper’s grave. I searched the internet for any agency that could help, since neither Mr. Snell or I had that kind of money, and though I found a number of compassionate organizations willing to help, most of them worked under the same guidelines as the VA or required money up front and expensive transportation costs. I went to my church and Facebook and was able to come up with the money needed to have that brave soul cremated. I now have his ashes on an honored spot on my bookshelf.

Listen up, my fellow veterans and active duty servicemen and women. Don’t expect to be taken care of by the government when you die, and for goodness sake, don’t leave your loved ones with the task of having to drain their savings to provide a casket and funeral for you. Most funeral homes allow you to make modest payments toward the cost of your own funeral, headstone, casket, graveside service and burial spot, or cremation. If, God forbid, you grow old and have to rely on Medicaid to sustain you, you will be left with nothing of worth except that assurance your needs have been cared for in advance. Even if you have a life insurance policy, it won’t arrive quick enough to take care of your afterlife costs. Plan now for the inevitable. You never know when that will be.

Papa

I am an Army veteran, and one of the benefits of being a veteran is receiving healthcare from the Veterans Administration (VA). On May 7, 2012 I had an appointment at the Birmingham VA Hospital to get my hearing checked. The Sheffield Disabled American Veterans (DAV) have a van that transports vets back and forth from the Shoals to Birmingham, and the day of my appointment I met at the designated spot for a ride. There I met a very old, very distinguished gentleman and we struck up a conversation. We found out that we were both writers, and that cemented our friendship. We chatted nonstop the whole way there and back. I learned that his name was Charles Snell, that he was 91 years young, that he served in World War Two in the Philippines (he said he once had a Japanese bullet bounce off his helmet) and earned a Bronze Star. He was a natural genius when it came to math and electronics, so his career was spent improving early computers, inventing such things as the remote-controlled meter reader device, and top secret programs with a sub contractor of the military developing what was then advanced systems. He told me with pride that he was in the 1988 Who’s Who of California. He was also a painter and a poet. I had not only met a true Renaissance man, but a new friend.

He told me that day that he lived alone in Tuscumbia, that he had lost his license after being involved in a couple of recent accidents, and that he was being fleeced by a neighborhood woman who charged him $20 every time he wanted to go anywhere or have her help him. I drove him home that evening when we returned and found his home to be almost devoid of groceries (he was a small, very gaunt man) and his surroundings somewhat disheveled. It was easy to see that he struggled to take care of himself, but he was fiercely independent. I promised to help him, and in my heart adopted him as my Papa. He said that he had one remaining son who lived in Puerto Rico but that they had a very contentious relationship. Papa said his son wanted him to move down there and live in a nursing home, but he adamantly refused for all sorts of colorful reasons. His son would later tell me that his father had been a strict disciplinarian, and that he had left home as soon as he could and never looked back. The two were basically one insult away from disowning each other.

I began visiting Papa every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, taking him where he wished to go, helping him prepare his meals and chipping in wherever I could. At first he insisted on doing everything himself, and I respected that, but his vision, hearing and coordination was seriously failing, and he knew it, so ultimately he allowed me to help him more often.  I learned that Papa could not paint anymore because his hands had grown too shaky, but the work he had once done was beautiful. He had also written seventeen books but had never tried seriously to get them published. Well, he did have three published, but they were all from vanity presses that charged him hundreds of dollars. Over the next year I personally edited, prepared and successfully published his books (his pen-name is Selrahln Dsomeijda, of all things) and even created a website for him to sell his writings: www.selrahlndsomeijda.weebly.com . We slowly but surely developed a close father-son relationship.

In October of 2012 his son sent Papa and I two tickets to Puerto Rico, and even though Papa didn’t want to go he knew I would enjoy the experience. Once there, I could tell that there were deep scars between them that they did not want to reveal or heal. The visit was strained and muted. Papa and I had more fun on the trip there and back than the two weeks we stayed. His son wanted me to help try and convince Papa to stay, but I couldn’t. All three of us knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Once back, Papa and I settled into our regular routine again. I began to notice that he seemed more tremulous, less sure of his footing. He also became upset easier, his usual political rants became more vehement and he began to complain bitterly about the state of the world. I worked harder during my visits to try and keep Papa from getting into those moods, but it grew more difficult as time went on.

Then late in the evening of February 12^th Papa called me and said he had fallen and dragged himself to the phone to call me. I rushed over there and found him still on the floor in obvious pain. As I dialed 911 the fear that he had broken his hip filled me with dread. X-rays did not reveal a fracture, thank goodness, but he was kept overnight for observation. The next day while still in the hospital Papa had an episode of atrial fibrillation and was moved to the cardiac floor. After a week of care he was sent to a nursing facility that also had a rehab dedicated to returning seniors to their homes. Papa thrived there and became able to ambulate with a walker, and between the nursing staff and myself we began preparing for his return home. Two days before his discharge, however, Papa fell and this time broke his hip. The surgery was successful, but from the stress on his body and mind, it was evident he would never return home. Papa agreed to let me be his power of attorney, and over the next two months I worked to have him eligible for Medicaid, which meant jumping over countless hoops, including letting his home go to forclosure and moving all his belongings into my home. When I told his son that Papa had broken his hip, the man said “Just let me know when the funeral is.” I was literally on my own, which was ok by me because I felt it was a supreme honor and blessing to become part of Papa’s life.

Papa’s health continued to deteriorate and he spent about as much time in the hospital as he did the nursing home. Then on Friday, June 14^th (flag day, ironically) Papa finally passed away. The hospital said I had to choose a funeral home to pick up Papa’s body, and after consulting a neighbor decided on one, then waited for them until they showed up and took him. I had no experience with after-death procedures, let alone what to do with the reality that he had no insurance and no money. His son would not help, either.

I knew Papa always told me he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread over his beloved wife’s grave, so I told the funeral home his preference. Later that evening the funeral director called and said that a cremation would cost $2700 up front. I was floored. I am on disability and am barely above to keep food on my table, so the price might as well been two million dollars. I began calling other funeral homes and eventually found one that would cremate Papa for $600 down and $1,300 in payments.  This was a far better price, so I allowed them to bring Papa’s body to their funeral home. Now there was just the matter of raising the money. Without the funds, Papa would be buried in a potter’s field in an unmarked grave. I could not let that happen. Both the VA and Social Security told me he did not fit the criteria for help from them, and the county government said they would normally help defray the cost of Papa’s cremation, but because he had a living relative they would not help.

An old high school classmate, Lea Weathers, told this story to her Facebook friends that weekend, and numerous people pledged to give what they could to help. A woman even said she would donate a burial plot in Roselawn cemetery.  Then Sunday, a love offering was raised by the members of my church for $270. I began to think it might actually happen. I just had to find a way to let these good Samaritans help pay for Papa’s cremation and rescue him from obscurity, knowing that any extra money would be used to pay it forward by helping another indigent war vet whose family might be in the same situation. On Monday morning I went to Compass Bank in Muscle Shoals and was helped tremendously by Ms. Nancy Brakin, who said that while starting a trust fund required a process which took time and effort, I could open a debit account and give it a unique name so that people could go to any Compass bank and ask for money to be deposited. Since it had to have my name, I called it the Jay T Harding Papa’s Fund and put the love offering in.

After notifying the others that they had a mechanism to donate, I sat back and waited. That was yesterday (6-17-13). Papa’s body is still waiting to be cremated, and if people are true to their word I will finally be able to honor this brave soul whom I came to call Papa.

I believe no indigent, homeless war veteran without a family should be placed in a pauper’s grave and forgotten just because of money. Organizations like SS or the VA or county governments or funeral homes must have money to grease the wheels of a consumer based economy, but because of this there are men and women that once faced death daily in war to secure our freedoms who are tossed into shallow, unmarked graves all over this nation, and who are simply forgotten. I believe a trust fund can be developed to keep this from happening to our brave patriots; I understand that I may not be able to raise the funds to have Papa’s final request honored, but regardless of whether this becomes a reality for his legacy or not, I want to light a fire in someone’s belly to match mine so that we might be able to save others in the same situation.

By the way, Papa has not been cremated yet. I had to spend $245 of the $270 my church gave me to the funeral home just for transporting Papa’s body from the hospital to their facility. I am $575 away from giving Papa his wishes. Still, his body lays untouched unembalmed.

To My Readers

For those of you who know anything about me by my writings, I like to push envelopes – majestically.  Whether it is my Christian horror book OOBERS: Kalamazoo, my Golden Vanguard articles, or the usual cynical blathering on my website, you usually find me hanging out on some ledge or another waving an off-color neon flag. I don’t often throw the full weight of solemnity or seriousness because, well, that’s not who I am.  At least I thought that about myself until two things firmly planted themselves into the very essence of my being. You are so dear to me, fair reader, and I am so incredibly grateful for your love and support.  Recently you have noticed a dramatic shift in my writing, and because of this it is important to me that you know and understand the reasons for such change.

On the 22^nd of May an off-duty British soldier, Lee Rigby, was brutally killed by two self-proclaimed radical Islamists. The crime in itself was horrific, but when one of the killers – his hands covered in Lee Rigby’s blood and holding on to a meat cleaver and butcher knife – began babbling to a camera about his sick and twisted justification for committing such a heinous act, I noticed in the background a group of spectators milling about taking pictures and huddled together like scared sheep. One woman, pulling a wheeled shopping cart behind her, cut through the crowd toward the blathering killer, glanced over at Lee Rigby’s mutilated body, then walked right by the murderer as if nothing was wrong. I heard the straw snap, breaking the camel’s back; I felt the cup of my outrage running over; I heard the collective cries of every victim of terrorism calling out for justice. In that instant I knew I had to learn all I could about not only the agenda of radical Islam, the atmosphere of complicity permeating the social fabric of the world, and what specifically I could DO to try and turn the tide of our destruction. I’m on that learning curve now, and so far have read, heard and seen things about jihadists that frighten and anger me to my bones. I can no longer stand by and let the atrocities continue without sounding the call to action for all liberty-minded people. Listen, I’m by no means an authority on the subject. You could say I’m in kindergarten when it comes to this.  But I am a writer and a thinker, and I’m determined to use what skills I have to try and wake up as many people as I can before it is too late. I am compelled, I am driven, and I am not going to stay silent any more. Beginning today, dear reader, my writings on this subject will be posted on community walls, the Twittersphere and anywhere else I’m allowed to holler. I’ve created a new blog page called Beast by the Horns which will house these writings. The purpose of this is so I can separate this serious and urgent subject from all my other blathering.

The second, yet far more important force that has taken hold of my life, is the profound influence Jesus Christ has had in my life. In 2005 I was absolutely and irrefutably born again and baptized by the Holy Spirit. This was probably the last thing in the world I had ever considered happening to me, even though I have always been what is called a ‘God intoxicated soul’. I had come to believe that spiritual truth could be found in every religion, that there was as many ways to Heaven as there were people, even that God and Satan (the positive and negative force) was housed in the same divine consciousness. But on that warm summer day at my sister Marie McAbee’s church – the Parkview Baptist church in Tuscumbia, Alabama – I felt the presence of God wash over me like a tidal wave, an undeniable call Home, a complete conviction, a Knowing that Jesus of Nazareth was God-incarnate, that he lived a perfect life and that not only did he sacrifice his life for the sins of the entire world, he actually conquered death and was resurrected after three days and ascended to the right hand of God as part of the Triune Godhead. I became a new creature (“…if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come.” 2 Corinthians 5:17); I became part of the body of Christ and was saved by the Grace of God. My love for God is not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination, but God’s love for me is perfect, and I have nothing to fear. My constant prayer is simple: *Thank you, Lord, for your beautiful Mercy, for your abiding Grace, for loving me despite the fact that I am absolutely unworthy of it. Thank you for the sacrifice you made for me as the unblemished Lamb of God, shedding your precious blood and in doing so creating the way to salvation if I but believe in you and believe your promises. Please have your way with me, Lord; shape me into a vessel of Your Divine Will.* My dear reader, do not think I will try to shove Christianity down your throat. I believe a tree is known by its fruit. If your heart is open and receptive and softened, you will hear God’s spirit calling you, and your life will never be the same again. (“His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence” 2 Peter 1:3) I only ask one question of you: Are you at a place in your life that, if death comes for you right now, you are sure you are going to Heaven?  Now, I completely respect your beliefs, and I promise you again that I will not chase after you thumping my Bible and trying to drag you down to the river. If you wish, you may visit my blog page Back of the Choir which will contain my spiritual musings.

Finally, for all of you who enjoy my satirical and off-beat ravings, please feel free to bookmark my new blog page Beans on the Grill. You will not be disappointed, I assure you.

My primary website is still www.jaytharding.com and will contain links to all my blogs and articles, as well as random pictures, poetry and other such literary nonsense.  So there you have it. If you care to read and comment, participate and debate my socio-political spewing, visit Beast by the Horns. If you are led to follow me on my ongoing spiritual journey, visit Back of the Choir. If you just want to be entertained by a semi-senile former hippy, visit Beans on the Grill. Most of all, my friend, I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your interest. Don’t forget, you can email me at jaytharding11@gmail.com, you can find me on Facebook or Twitter, Google + or Goodreads. Wherever you visit, you will be welcome.