A Favorite Gift

                                                                                             

   I found myself watching some very old 8mm home videos recently and got to watch myself opening one of my favorite Christmas gifts of all time. It was around 1973 or 74 and I was about eight years old. We lived in West Memphis, Arkansas on Johnson Street and all of us kids were in the living room; opening presents all at the same time. As my two sisters, my brother and I ripped into the flimsy wrapping paper, I felt the remembrance of joy wash over me. I had received one of those plastic army men playsets with hundreds of soldiers, tanks, airplanes, barbed wire, bombed out partial buildings and all kinds of other accessories every eight-year-old kid needs to reenact all the bloody conflicts of World War II. It was awesome! As politically incorrect as such things are in today’s “civilized” and “woke” society, back then this batch of warriors was my kind of present. Organized violence, especially the military kind, has always captured my intrigue. I loved my GI Joes (yes, with the Kung-Fu grip and the realistic “buzz-cut” hairdo. Everything about men in battle interested me, even at the tender age of eight.  

   My brother helped me organize them into “sides” and we battled against each other on the floor of our bedroom, using various sized paper wads as “artillery”. We’d take turns trying to knock out each other’s soldiers with each throw, with him usually coming up victorious. He was the older brother, after all. Four whole years older. He just enjoyed another birthday this week, so thanks, Joe Stone, for playing with me all those times. I appreciate you not smothering me in my sleep, too. You’re a good brother.  

   I played at war with those little army men, making up battles, tactics and strategies for many hours. I played with others, by myself, indoors and outdoors. I built forts and trenches, and bunkers for them. I slaughtered them by their hundreds. Not one single warrior survived. Come to think of it, none of those toys survived. Gee, I guess I WAS kinda rough on those things.  I have two books that I ordered from the Military Book Club in the late Seventies. Blitzkrieg by Len Deighton and Yours to Reason Why-a book where you choose what to do in the battle, and it then tells you what would have happened. Kind of an “interactive” book. None of my toys, airplane or tank models, or original wargames (actual boxed solitaire-type games) survived. Sigh. The nostalgia aches within me.  

   Lest you think of me as a warmongering, blood-thirsty type of dude, I must tell you that my interest in all things about warfare evolved as I grew older. I studied tactics and strategies of the art of ancient and modern wars. I read volumes on the subject. First-person accounts of battle were always my favorite, however. The ability of mankind to inflict, and endure, such horrible things upon our fellow man is both atrocious and bewildering. Even when the reasons for war are just and right, the death and pain are hard to understand. The stories of courage and personal sacrifice seem unbelievable to those of us who have never experienced it first-hand. As General Lee once said: “It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we would grow too fond of it.” Like all other hardships in life, combat brings out both the best, and worst, in men.  

   It was only when my son, Tim, joined the Army during wartime that I felt the true nature of war brush past me. He spent a year, mobilized with his Guard unit, over in Iraq and Kuwait from 2007 to 2008. I was both proud and terrified. I’m pretty sure he felt even more so of both. He made it back mostly unscathed but with experiences that do not end when the battle is over. He was no toy, but a man that had been thrown into a place where people got killed every day. When they were toppled by the opposing team, they didn’t always get back up.  

   I didn’t go down this rabbit hole to say throw out any toy soldiers, guns, tanks and warplanes. I was merely looking at myself in the mirror. I didn’t turn into a school shooter or a serial killer because I find the organized violence of warfare fascinating. Neither does my wife kill me in my sleep and dissolve my body in a barrel of acid just because she finds true-life murder stories on tv to be soothing. I’m lucky in that I found a hobby that encouraged me to read about men of honor, strength and moral fiber who did incredible things as they stood watch against evil men on our behalf.  

Maybe I just want to get down on the carpet and play with that playset with my brother just one more time. Yup. I think that’s where I was headed. 

Happy Birthday Mary Ann White (my beautiful sister) whose birthday was also this week. You played with me a lot back then, too, and never once killed me in my sleep either. Thanks for that! 

God bless Y’all!