I was very fortunate never to have seen combat. That's just how it worked out for me. I enlisted because I wanted to, felt that I needed to, did my time and ETS'd in January 1986. That being said, I saved up most of my leave and took an early out in November 1985. They called it terminal leave as I recall. I've told this story here before and will again because I feel as though it's fitting.
I got home a night or two before Thanksgiving 1985. My family knew that I was coming home, but not when exactly because I wanted to surprise them. I flew into O'Hare and caught a bus to Elkhart, IN. I walked over to a payphone and started calling around to my family members, but no one answered. I surprised them by not telling them exactly when I would be home, and they surprised me by not being home when I got there. I picked up my duffle bag and started home, and it was snowing pretty good too. I saw a restaurant, Gubi's along the way that wasn't there when I left home years before, so I ducked in the side door. I left my duffle bag outside against the wall, walked in and stood there in my dress greens and overcoat and jump boots looking around the place to take it in, and to see if I would be welcome. I had just gotten home from Germany and while I was in Germany, I was hearing stories that soldiers, GI's back home weren't so accepted anymore, and actually unwelcome. I'm now home, walk into some strange restaurant and wasn't sure if I was going to be attacked or what. So I'm standing just inside the door looking around, people are looking at me and I wasn't looking for trouble. I just ducked in to get out of the snow and try to call my family again if they had a pay phone. Next thing I know, some old fella walks up to me, reaches out his hand to shake mine, says "Welcome home" and thanked me. Just like that, "Thanks and welcome home". Then he walked over to his table, picked up his flatware and continued eating. His wife looked at me, gave me a smile and a wink, picked up her flatware and continued eating. OK, I walked up to the bar and looked around. The owner, Craig Gubi welcomed me and had one of the bartenders get me a beer on the house. We talked, I told them what had happened, and one of the bartenders hands me the phone receiver from behind the bar and starts dialing numbers for me. I got someone at my mother's house. Turns out everyone, all of my family members where there getting ready for Thanksgiving the next day or so. "Mark, where are you at?" they took turns asking as each picked up the phone. I didn't tell them, only that I'd be home soon. I finished my beer, Craig had one of the bartenders drive me and my duffle bag home and I had one of the best Thanksgivings ever.
Lesson learned? To this day, I see an American uniform and I don't care who, I stop what I'm doing and return the favor..."Thank you so very much", sincerely. A lesson that I earned from an elderly couple when I was much younger and unsure of myself. I don't need Veterans Day either, but it's nice that it's there.
I thank everyone that has served and will. Some get lucky like me, and some don't. OUR country is lucky, and blessed.
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Today's Featured Article - Harvestin Hay: The Early Years (Part 2) - by Pat Browning. The summer of 1950 was the start of a new era in farming for our family. I was thirteen, and Kathy (my oldest sister) was seven. At this age, I believed tractor farming was the only way, hot stuff -- and given a chance I probably would have used the tractor, Dad's first, a 1936 Model "A" John Deere, to go bring in the cows! And I think Dad was ready for some automation too. And so it was that we acquired a good, used J. I. Case, wire tie hay baler. In addition to a person to drive th
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