roggen

I have a quasi three fold venn diagram-ish connection to this sincerely amazing blog... coming out of HS in '68, I was bombarded with ROTC that year, rah-rah "Kill Charlie" stand-ins at my favorite VFW watering holes, and Ritchie Haven-esque protests in most of the public parks and occasionally outside government buildings...needless to say, a bizarre circus for a shy introverted impressionable 17 year old. My Dad, a staunch pro-America WWII Vet disabled by a non-combat wartime event *which btw he died from in '76*, being also ANYTHING anti-Commie, encouraged me to enlist when I came forward with the knowledge most of my HS buds had already sworn in. But there's a blip... being somewhat of a geek *we were called "pocket-protectors" back then*, I excelled and graduated at 17 when my buds were all 18/19, and couldn't legally enlist without parent's signature. Mom, a closet alcoholic, was near useless, but Dad said go ahead. And so I trundled off to Baltimore's Ft Holabird *now defunct* with a heart full of 'Oh Say Can You See'. ...enter glitch #2: a severe HS football injury had left me with 1/2 a kneecap and major tendon reconstruction, and the still bright pink scars were quite evident to the line doctor passing out approval stamps. He spotted me, and my scars, in the endless line of white boxershorted wanna-bees, and hollered "You! Outta line, front and center!". I was presented with a multi-paged form to-wit explained that the good ol' US Army wanted full absolution regarding further injury to my leg, and being 17, parent's approval was mandatory. Dad balked, recounting his disabling war injury ad-nauseum, wouldn't sign, and that was that.... except now the Ritchie Havens tunes began humming in my brain. It would be the 'full-out-free-love-going-to-San Francisco-with-flowers-in-your-hair' Summer of 1968 before I would become emancipated at 18... and it was *without hate please* Golden! I met amazing people, authors, political organizers, musicians, artists, all bent on 'why are we...?' in a near Forrest Gump-like atmosphere ... and I marched upon DC, I marched upon Annapolis *my State's Capital*, I waved homemade banners, and I didn't realize it then that my 'wanting-to-belong' neurons were being oddly seriously excellently assuaged by all this. That Fall however, the 18 year old reality check kicked in, and I was once again, via Draft Board notice, presented to the very same doctor, who looked at my very same leg, and pronounced "1-A" - meaning I was draftable material. So I switched gears again, reinvented as an anti-Gook *please forgive* machine I was back to "Kill Charlie!"...enter the Draft Lottery... the first one I was number 318. the top-off was I believe in the mid 290's (?), and so I was passed over. Later that year I was invited to return to my HS to help produce their 'Senior Follies', I met and fell in love with and married the mother of my children, and that pushed me further back in line, until at age 35 I received official notice my draft obligations were relieved. ... so how does this all gel? Chronologically, Vietnam left a huge whole in my life and created some of the most personally gut wrenching experiences even though military service for me was a non-issue: during the HS play I helped produce, in a scene reminiscent of 'White Christmas' during the G.I.'s song "I'll Be Home For Christmas", the fiancé of my absolute best *enlisted* friend was presented with the telegram of his demise in the audience that very moment... How does one reconcile that anger, pity, sorrow, confusion...all in a split second? it's in my brain still today, unresolved. .... but let's fast forward a bit... the Tet Offensive, the Saigon evacuation, Johnson's inefficacy, Nixon's a crook, all molded my psyche to equally love the Veterans and hate The War. Now I support anything Veteran related, from ANY conflict! *back to venn* I hold the sacrifices of Pvt Pastrana *if I'm seeing his stripe correctly* and his buddies in my heart, along with, at last count, the three soldiers lost in Afghanistan who once were HS students in my Brother's class where he's taught for over 30 years. I attend rallies, bike-athons, memorials. But crazy shit happens too... like my next best friend came home a complete basket case, became a social recluse, and eventually went on a nine day shooting spree ending in a deathly shootout with police. Following him was another who survived missing both legs for decades, but became caught up in an insanely out-of-control convenience store shoplifting incident, and was again shot dead by police. *venn, please Robert!* I have to say from my heart my life today would be nowhere without all this sacrifice. I have skills, emotions, enriched loyalism and patriotism, and amazing outlets for it all... ... over the years, since my Dad took me to see his Dad in Daytona in 1969 on vacation to discuss my enlistment quandary, I've developed a huge respect for NASCAR after literally climbing the fence that day and spending an entire afternoon hidden in the press box during the Firecracker 400 time trials. NASCAR relevance?... I've intensely followed the career of Travis Pastrana *ding-ding...venn bonus round!* and attended, or watched, every one of his ARCA and NASCAR events, cheering him on, solely based on the work ethic and family values he happily espouses. I've enjoyed his Motocross and X-Games events as well. None of that would have been possible had not Robert Pastrana made his individual decision to serve proudly, come home bravely, and carry on in a world that honest to God seems to have completely lost it's focus for men, and women, like him. @roggen you are so awesome for floating this topic, I encourage your future efforts, and may we all find some common ground to allow respectful peace to outweigh absurdly power hungry war.

I like it. it's a cool painting.

Nice work, Caitlyn from LoL (?)

agreed! resembles the indian burial ground not far from my mums house! no empty structures but does have the pet cemetery appeal to it!

a wild roggen appears!