Honoring Veterans – Old & Young/Past & Present

by Crystal Laramore


Veteran’s day; a time for reflection and gratitude for many. And boy, do we have a lot to be grateful for! Just in my family and circle of friends alone I spent a few hours today (Tuesday) making phone calls and sending emails, thanking them for serving our country. I even received a few “thank-you’s” myself, which humbled my heart beyond measure.

One of my friends, CW 4 Luke Sweeney, flew an apache helicopter in the downtown parade in Houston on Veterans Day last year. His co-pilot was CW2 Darrick McGill. The lead Apache was expertly piloted by CW3 Roka (Rock) Wolgamott and co-piloted by CW2 Dusty Davis and they were followed by CW2 Ross Hovey and his front-seater was CW2 Jonathan Johnson.

Apparently this was a death-defying act! We were in Baghdad together and he said the flight that day was more frightening than most of the flying he did over there! The buildings downtown were only 75 feet apart and his span on the helo is about 50 feet! Warrant Officer Sweeney, aka Coco, lives here in Coldspring with his children, Brooke & Lucas Sweeney and his sister Sue Sweeney. If you live in Conroe, you may see him flying overhead a lot. He is based out of Lone Star Executive Airport. He belongs to the 7/6 Calvary Regiment. So, those guys you see practicing are doing it for a reason. And when you do see them, take a moment to say a silent “thank you” or heck, yell it till your throat hurts!

Until you’ve been in a war or a war zone you cannot begin to understand the level of commitment the men and women serving your country have embraced. Almost every day people ask me what it was like “over there”. Being Veteran’s Day today and having a chopper fly over my restaurant today made me remember this article and want to re-run it…

The military hospital is called the CASH (combat support hospital; incidentally, they used to be called M*A*S*H hospitals so says Col. Uncle Bill). When I first arrived I was sick with flu-like symptoms for the first three months. The doctors and civilians called it the Baghdad bug and many people were sick with it. So, I was in the CASH a lot. Then my neck stiffened up on me and I could not turn my head so I was in physical therapy for about six-8 weeks every day.

While I was hanging out at the hospital I would visit soldiers who were wounded and find out about their injuries and their lives at home and where they came from. Most of the soldiers had their purple hearts or their silver stars sitting right by their bedside. I caught a few of them watching Oprah, but as soon as I’d walk in and said “Hey, how’s it going?” they’d change the channel to WWF or something. (Not really WWF since we didn’t get that channel, but you get the idea!) And I never once called ‘em out on it. It was a secret among friends.

Other times, when I was coming in for treatment, I’d see a Chinook in the parking lot with a big red cross on it or a Blackhawk with blades running. Sometimes the medics would be taking soldiers off and carrying them in the CASH right in front of me. People screaming, men running, blood dripping. ER in a war zone. No commercials. No actors. No do-overs. Other times the only noise in all the area would be the deep, heavy thudding of the chopper blades. Either scenario was a grave situation. Those young men were in that chopper, on that gurney, in those bandages, bleeding red-for me. (And not all of them were Americans. This is a coalition of forces.) And I would always say a little prayer before walking through those ominous glass sliding doors, because of what awaited me on the other side; a soldier or a marine would often be lying on a gurney with his buddies standing around him in prayer. And I always knew (or thought I did) if the young man would make it or not. Sometimes I couldn’t even get through my physical therapy session b/c I was crying so hard. Probably what pulled at my heart more than anything is that I always expected to see a man; a grown man; an older man; a man who had lived most of his life; a man ready to die;. What I saw were men all right; it’s just that they were men at young boy’s ages; they hadn’t lived their lives; they just graduated from high school; they weren’t ready to die. But they were ready to fight for their country. Their faces were so young and so innocent, and yet so very brave.

At night, when we would all be sitting around winding down, we’d hear the choppers coming in; always, two-by-two. First one, then the other. If I was on the phone with a family member or friend I’d have to say, “Hold on, a chopper’s coming in” and after the chopper passed the person would start talking again and I’d have to say “Hold on, there’s another one coming in about 30 seconds”.

After being over there for a few months you could determine if an Apache, a Blackhawk or a Chinook was coming in. If it was a Chinook, chances were, the second one always had a big red cross painted on the side indicating there were wounded or fallen soldiers on board. The mood always fell to a heavy silence. Sometimes people would cry. It makes my heart beat fast just writing about it. We could hear the war in the background and we could always drown it out with laughter and chit chat and a few Coronas-naked not dressed-who had limes and salt? But, we could not drown out the sound of Chinooks coming in; two-by-two; first one, then the other. It was a heavy, thudding noise that cut through and drowned out our laughter as if demanding attention and prayer; respect and thought. It was ominous, surreal and sad.

And sometimes hearing the choppers coming in, feeling them come in, well, it felt patriotic, brave and warrior-like. I miss the sounds of the choppers flying over-head at night, rocking my hooch (where we lived-term brought back from the Vietnam War). I miss the feeling that I am well protected and loved by those who know me not. I miss feeling protected by the best armed forces in the world simply because I was blessed enough, by God, to be born an American.

So this veteran’s day, when I flew my flag I flew it out of respect for veterans of wars past, but especially for the young men and women who are fighting now. The one’s I’ve met and the one’s I know not. God bless them and God bless America!

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Memorial Day 2009

By Crystal Laramore

Memorial Day - a time for reflection and gratitude for many of us. I spent the day having a lot of fun with my fiancée & friends and all our combined children. We spent the day on the lake tubing and sun bathing and telling stories. You know, enjoying our freedom-while it lasts-wondering if the children splashing in the water were going to enjoy the same America I’ve enjoyed…hoping that everyone is paying attention to the rapid decline of freedoms and the rapid increase of direct government involvement in our lives. Find a tea party. Enjoy some tea.

Then, as always, I thought about our boys overseas. I always say MY Marines whenever I’m telling one of my Baghdad stories. Those guys over there-they are our guys. So if you are ever wondering who’s over there, now you’ll know…our boys and our girls. They are over there carting around 80 plus pounds of battle gear in 120 degrees, sleeping on the dirt, losing buddies, losing limbs, dying. For all for us, so we can have the freedom to be here today, enjoying the lake and our families & friends.

It’s holidays like this that cause me to pause for just a moment in time and realize how damn lucky I am to be living in the United States of America; the country that has the Bald Eagle as its national symbol; the three heads symbolizing the three branches of government, and the right wing representing conservation and the left wing representing the liberal side of life-doing stuff for those who cannot (or will not) do it for themselves. Our bird is becoming out of balance with a tiny right wing and a very large left wing. As Glen Beck pointed out, we can’t fly like this.
And its holiday’s like this that give me reason to remember who we are as a nation:

We are the country that remembers what we did for France. No, not what we did for France, what we sacrificed for France. The Dixie Chicks may be too young to remember or too self-centered to care, but you can bet most of us are not, uh Toby? And I’m the person who served the French Ambassador Woodbridge wine. Take that! Listen, it’s the best I could do under the circumstances. My Marines and I thought of several other things but all plans led to prison.

We are a rich country; gracious, forgiving and we should also be demanding. I want Reagan back. Sorry, I’m chasing butterflies again. We’re the country who shows up in a big way in every natural disaster area around the world. We’re the guys with C-130’s filled with relief supplies in Burma who cannot get in. We want to help China more than China wants to help China. That’s who we are! And we do NOT need the government to mandate our compassion.

We are the country who forgives. We forgive a lot. We may never forgive the Dixie Chicks but we’ll forgive a nations’ debt so they can feed their hungry. We forgive where it counts. And we do not need the government to mandate our forgiveness.
We are a proud country. We’re proud of ourselves, our children, our nation and most of all, our forefathers. Just ask the Dixie Chicks. We can love you one minute and turn on you the next. We have the power to make you rich (see: Toby Keith) or wish you’d kept your mouth shut (see: Dixie Chicks). We can put a company in business or take one out. We have the power b/c our government gave us that power. And we do not need the government to do it for us. It’s a free market. We understand. Those of us buying and selling. We ALL understand.

We are flag fliers and banner wavers - with wild abandon! We wear our bumper stickers and our yellow ribbons and we speak out against dictatorships and tyranny and open our arms for refugees and immigrants from those countries who do not. We not only take care of our own but we take care of others; sometimes to our own detriment. And no, we don’t always do the best, but I believe we do the best we can. And we don’t need the government doing it for us.

We are a brave country. We have brave men signing up every day to go to war. We don’t have to make them - they volunteer. They don’t run away to other countries by the hundreds (a few-but that’s another article) to escape serving their country, they run to the recruiter’s office and say “I want to serve. Sign me up; Sir”! So no, we don’t need the government interfering here either.

Just watch the right news programs and you’ll see our young men with their chests out and their eyes squinted; their weapons slung over their shoulders and a cigarette between their gritty teeth; sweat dripping down their foreheads into their eyes, thoughts of survival on their minds. Some of us have seen all of this up close and personal; and for those of you who haven’t, be grateful, be very grateful and think before you speak about what you know nothing of.

One of my Marines came back from Fallujah and told me how he had to handle an insurgent up close and personal. Kill or be killed. Only brave men sign up for that. They are a band of brothers. They train together, live together, sleep together, dream together, fight together and sometimes die together.
And in those rare moments when all seems safe, they have fun together. On my big Four-Oh, I was in Baghdad, with my Marines. As I drove from the U.S. Embassy to my hooch I had to go through several check points. My marines were there, singing happy birthday to me as I drove through. I was on the phone with my dad. He was a little weepy and I was…brave.

A lady opened the door of my restaurant Monday and wondered why everything in town was closed. I told her it was a national holiday. She said that she had driven for an hour to pay her taxes. I reminded her that it was a NATIONAL holiday. “Well, I guess it’s important to some people”.

Seriously? I told her that in fact it was important to some people and I was one of “those people”. Then I showed her my cousins’ picture from WWII receiving a Silver Star medal and told her he also received a Purple Heart. I told her his name was Don Cook, just in case she repeats this story. I said the holiday was important to him too. I showed her the autographed covers (hats) and uniforms hanging on my wall, one with my last name on it belonging to my UB, and told her the holiday was important to them too.

I asked her if she was actually from the United States of America. She said yes. I just looked at her and then asked her to leave, you know, since I was closed and all. But what I thought was “too bad”. Too bad so many people have become so apathetic. My pastor says apathy is worse than being vehemently opposed or for something; at least those emotions show that you care-one way or the other. And then I thought it was people like her that caused someone to invent duct tape.

And, we are FREE! So the next time you hear someone complaining about our country, your country, remind them they are free-to leave. It’s a real show-stopper. I hear France is nice.