BAER BAER - Jeffersonian

GUNCRANKDIARIES
John Connor
On Bein’
Thankful
R
ecently,
I ran into a guy I
hadn’t seen in five years. He
ogled at my new scars (I call
’em epidermal ornamentation) and
my jaunty stance of leanin’ on my
lunar-lander walker-cane. He then
mumbled some crap amounting to,
“Oh, poor you! Aw, that’s awful!
How horrible for you!”
You know the type. His 5-star
dinner is ruined because Chez
Henri’s is outta’ cherry-amarettowalnut
ice cream for dessert. And
he’s one of those who thinks anybody
who’s hit a coupla’ potholes
Less Thankin’ *
Speaking of which, seems like Thanksgiving
is on the decline. Lots of folks
take the holiday, but I see less and less
of the actual giving-of-thanks. This goes
along with the hordes of people living in
conditions undreamed of by two-thirds
the world, but still feeling short-changed
somehow, and deserving a chunk of
others’ possessions. Maybe too many
Americans* have had it so well for so
long, they can’t be thankful anymore?
Long ago, an old warrior advised me that every
time I wake up, before I open my eyes, bring my
hands up to head level and then extend my arms out
as far as I can reach. “If you don’t feel the inside of a
coffin or body bag,” he said, “You win!”
Not impressed? About 1.5 million people per
week lose the life lottery. Feel better now? — Me
too, every day. So far, even though human mortality
is still holding at 100 percent (death has great
success stats), my “Alive at Five, Every Day Plan”
is working!
A while back, I had to call for roadside assistance
when a tire ran flat. The young man who responded
moved very smoothly for having two prosthetic
legs below the knees. An Army vet, he lost ’em in
an IED blast. He admired my camo, multi-toe cane;
I admired his techno-cool Terminator feet, and we
both grinned like monkeys.
“I’m so-o-o lucky!” he told me. “They were gonna’
have to take my left leg at the hip, but the docs saved
it, and these work great! I’m going to get Cheetah
flex-feet and be running again!” His eyes shone as he
laughed, “Man, I really lucked out!”
on the road of life
must, be crushed,
miserable and moanin’ because he dang
sure would be. Hey, I didn’t say he’s a
friend; just some guy.
He’s also the sort who’s nonplussed
when a guy like me smiles and says,
“Nah; I’m doin’ great, and man, am I
thankful! I’d count my blessings, but I
can’t count that high.”
Here’s a kinda’ Connor CAT-scan
slice: Sometimes when the Memsaab
Helena is putting donkey-liniment on
my back and feelin’ all those lumps,
squiggles an’ knots which were not
“original issue,” I can
feel her hands tremble;
EXCUSES, ALIBIS,
PITHY OBSERVATIONS
& GENERAL EPHUS
24 WWW.AMERICANHANDGUNNER.COM • NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2011
TM
Dang! I barely
finished this terrific
Thanksgiving dinner —
and my fork broke! Rats!
Why do I
have such
rotten luck?
chokin’ up; sometimes I feel the tears
pattering. Then she’ll squeeze me
gently and whisper, “Oh, thank God,
John … Just thank God.” I know what
she’s thankful for, and it ain’t the
scars and broken bits.
And a warm sirocco of gratitude
blows over me; faithful friends, a
loving wife, great kids; worthwhile
work and the feeling that I can still
make my own way and contribute to
the good; earning the food I eat and
the air I breathe. Yeah, I’ve got tons to
be thankful for, and no regrets.
Pass the turkey and a big slice a’
THANKS, please …
Americans: More accurately perhaps, “the current residents of
a geopolitical entity; the formerly-United States of America.”
Seessee-Bwois
T
hroughout my life of lumps, every time I might have
felt a twinge of self-pity, I found myself in the company
of people a lot worse off than I, who faced their conditions
with courage and humor. Those who came the closest to
winkin’-out like burnt stars had the best aphorisms to express
their attitudes: “Still on the sunshine side of the grass! Woohoo!” and
“Ain’t nobody pattin’ me on the face with a shovel today, dude!”
My old comrade, G.K. Shirpa, has sorta’ made it his crusade to
point out — gently if possible, forcefully if not — why complaining,
dejected, demoralized soldiers have nothin’ to mutter about. He’s
been fighting communists and other vermin since he was a boy in the
mid 1940s. He’ll see some whole, healthy pup cryin’ in his beer, grab
him by the stackin’ swivel, haul him upright and then poke him in the
chest a coupla’ times — hard, with a steely finger.
“You know what ees NOT thees?” he demands. “Eez not Russiasoldier
bayonet!” He then opens his shirt and searches the maze
of scars until he finds the one left by a Soviet blade. “Hyew see
dees, whining one? Hyew gotz notting for to cry! You want cry? I
geev yew thees!” When Shirpa’s done, if his subject ain’t properly
thankful, at least he won’t dare to show it … I taught him the phrase
“sissy boy,” which comes out particularly scathing and funny as
heck: “Seessee-bwoi!”
Thanksgiving is coming. I know I can count on you folks to
remind the whiners and seessee-bwois it ain’t about holiday; it’s
about giving thanks for your breath, your heartbeat, for another
shot at feeling the sun on your face. And if some mutt grumbles
and throws his sucker in the dirt, feel free to poke him — hard!
— And demand: “You know what eez NOT thees?”
Connor OUT.
Photo: Jeff John
*