Cemetery watchman

I thought this was a nice story…………

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, Stephenwas

my uncle, Stanley

was my husband, Larry

and Darrel were

our sons. All killed in action, all

Marines.’

She stopped! 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!
“Ask not what your country can

do for you, but what you can do for your country”

Some of you will have read this before but i thought it was worth reading again!!! 🙂

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