Marine Could not Wait To Leave Work. It’s Worth Taking A Minute Of Your Day And Reading<br /><br />Reader Mark B. emailed this story this morning, on Veteran’s Day. It’s worth taking a minute of your day and reading.<br />I just wanted to get the day over with and go down to Smokey’s for a few cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time, 1655. Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />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!”<br />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 the last half of happy hour at Smokey’s.<br />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 30 minutes after I began the watch at the cemetery.<br />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?”<br />She took long enough to answer. “Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers? I seem to be moving a tad slow these days.”<br />“My pleasure Ma’am.” Well, it was not too much of a lie.<br />She looked again. “Marine, where were you stationed?”<br />” Vietnam, Ma’am. Ground-pounder. ’69 to ’71.”<br /><br />She looked at me closer. “Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine. I will be as quick as I can.”<br />I lied a little bigger “No hurry, Ma’am.”<br /><br />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 Wassermann, <br />and I have a few Marines I would like to see one more time.”<br />“Yes, Ma’am. At your service.”<br /><br />She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone. She murmured something I could not quite make out. The name on the marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X. Davidson, USMC,<br />1943.<br />She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J. Wassermann USMC, 1944. She paused for a second, “Two more, son, a
