Showing posts with label military. Show all posts
Showing posts with label military. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 8, 2023

Military Spouse by J. S. Marlo


Misguided Honor
Ghostly Murder Mystery on a Canadian military base
 Click here to buy


 

  

Nov 11 is a special day, a day to remember the brave men and women who served in the military and gave their lives for their country. In Canada, it is called Remembrance Day, also known as Poppy Day.




As we honour the ones who never came back home, let's not forget the ones they loved and left behind in the name of duty. This poem is for them.

The Silent Ranks

I wear no uniforms, no blues or greens,
But I am in the military, in the ranks rarely seen.
I have no rank upon my shoulders. Salutes I do not give.
But in the military world is where I live.
I am not in the chain of command, orders I do not give or get.
But my husband/wife is the one who does, this I can never forget.
I am not the one who fires a weapon, who puts his/her life on the line.
But my job is just as tough. I am the one who is always left behind.
My husband/wife is the patriot, the brave and proud man/woman in uniform.
Not all can understand the call to serve one’s country.
Behind the lines I see things needed to keep this country free.
My husband/wife makes the sacrifice, but so do our families.
I love the man/woman I married. The military is his/her life. 
So I pledge to support my hero and stand among the silent ranks known as
The Military Spouse

The poem was originally written by an unknown military wife, a woman very much like me, and was signed The military Wife. I took the liberty to adapt it to both military wife and husband.

Let's never forget the sacrifices made by so many to keep our country free.
J.S.

Monday, November 9, 2020

Veteran's Day

 

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Veteran’s Day, or Remembrance Day as some countries call it, is celebrated on Nov. 11 because the Allied nations and Germany signed an armistice, or a temporary halting of hostilities during World War I, on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. Much has been written about this period of history, and many of you may have relatives who played a part, if not in WWI than in later conflicts. In today’s world, we honor not only those who fought in WWI, but all of our veterans.


My dad joined the Army Air Corp by using his brother’s birth certificate as he was too young at the time to join. After first enlisting, he later re-upped and went to Officer Candidate School and became a pilot. He flew in the Berlin Air Lift at the end of WWII, delivering supplies to blockaded Berlin. During his career he also flew missions to Vietnam and played “cat and mouse” with the Russians during the cold war. He set records for distance and speed as new transport aircraft were constantly being built. When he’d go on a mission, we never knew where or how long he’d be gone. He didn’t talk about it, and now that he has passed away, there are so many things I wish I had asked him. Not so much about where he flew, but why he risked his life; why he stayed in the Air Force for 23 years instead of returning to civilian life.

Because he had retired by the time grandkids came along, they only knew him as Grandpa Rusty, who would pile them in the back of his pickup and take them to Dairy Queen. They never knew that other part of his life. When he was perhaps 75 years old, I decided to write a creative non-fiction story about the Air Lift for his grandchildren. I had to do a lot of research and I was surprised at the amazing things those young pilots did at that time. It was hard to imagine my dad at 23 years of age, a cocky “fly boy” and quite handsome in his uniform. He flew 100 missions along a narrow corridor with anti-aircraft flac exploding on both sides of his airplane. He had little in the way of radar. The planes took off and landed only seconds apart and if for some reason they couldn’t land, they had to return to base without delivering their much needed supplies. It was an operation that people said couldn’t be done and yet ended in success.


My dad lost his vision later in life, and eventually could hardly walk, but every Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day he would be on his brother’s porch for the parade as the bands marched by. And he would say, “Tell me when the flag comes”, and when we told him, he would stand and salute.

I am so proud to be the daughter of a veteran. It’s not said often enough, but THANK YOU to all the men and women who have spent their lives in service to their country to ensure the freedoms we still enjoy today.



Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

 

 


Friday, April 29, 2016

The Lennon-McCartney of the 18th Century


 
 
The tenor, Michael Kelly, wrote a memoir which remains interesting to anyone searching for Mozart stories, particularly about the Marriage of Figaro. (The Austrian Emperor and therefore everyone else in Vienna referred to Kelly as "Ochelli" because "The names of all Irishmen begins with an 'O". Therefore, OChelli he was--in Vienna.)  Lesson #1--never correct the Emperor of Austria if you would like to keep your job at the royal opera house...
 
From the tenor Michael Kelly’s "Reminiscences," published 1826 :
 
“I remember the first rehearsal of the full band, Mozart was on the stage with his crimson pelisse and gold-laced cocked hat, giving the time of the music to the orchestra. Figaro’s son, “Non piu andrai, farballone amoroso…” Bennuci gave with the greatest animation and power of voice.

 
I was standing next to Mozart, who, sotto voce, was repeating, “Bravo! Bravo! Bennuci!” and when Bennuci came to the fine passage, “Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla Gloria militar” which he gave out with Stentorian lungs, the effect was electricity itself, for the whole of the performers on the stage and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated Bravo! Bravo! Maestro! Viva, viva grande Mozart! Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding, by beating the bows of their violins against the music desks. The little man acknowledged, by repeated obeisances, his thanks for the distinguished mark of enthusiastic applause bestowed upon him…” 

 

No more, you amorous butterfly,
Will you go fluttering round by night and day,
Disturbing the peace of every maid,
You pocket Narcissus, you Adonis of love,
No more will you have those fine feathers,
That light and dashing cap,
Those curls, those airs and graces,
That rosy womanish cheek.
You’ll be among warriors, by Bacchus!
Long moustaches, knapsack tightly on,
Musket on your shoulder, saber at your side,
Head erect and bold of visage,
A great helmet, waving plumes,
Lots of honor, little money,
And instead of the fandango,
Marching through the mud.
Over mountains, through valleys,
In snow and days of listless heat,
To the sound of blunderbusses,
Shells and cannons
Whose shots shall make your ears sing
On every note.
Cherubino, onto victory,
Onto Military Glory!
 
(Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla Gloria militar!)
 

This is one of the most famous (and fun!) arias in all of operaSet to Mozart’s most stirring martial music, it is mockingly sung to Cherubino, the teen would-be lady-killer, by the older servant,  wily Figaro. The Count who rules them all has just caught the boy hanging around once too often, first with his wife, and just now with Susanna, the pretty maid whom the Count is hot to seduce. As Cherubino is his ward and of noble blood, he can’t just murder him, (much as he'd like to,) so he's ordered him into the army.

 
The military is still the classic solution for boys who suffer from a chronic overload of testosterone and who are causing problems around your house—or on the street. Written in the late 18th Century, when war still had a cloud of romance hanging round it—no machine guns, tanks, drones or poison gas just yet—it’s straight on the mark. “Glory” is meant ironically. Figaro is sobering the boy up, saying that soldiering means real danger, exhaustion and suffering. So get ready, kid!

 
It’s a nice example of DaPonte’s nuanced writing, words that inspired Mozart to write his most famous scores. Figaro first sings mocking praises—“Pocket Narcissus” has to be one of the best put-downs ever. Then he gets tougher. There will be no further perfumed romps in My Lady’s chambers. Your new bosom companions, my son, will be hardened soldiers--and your 60 lb. knapsack. No more dances, only marching, almost always in the worst weather.  In the 18th Century, too, armies were often chronically without pay, not only because of the usual bad planning, but because wrecking havoc on civilians was (and, heck, still is) traditionally part of the game. DaPonte and Mozart, both freelance artists, know only too well that honor without the cash to back it up was a hollow thing indeed.
 

For the coup de grace, Figaro describes the pain which bombs and gunshots will cause your ears. It’s a misery particularly singled out by DaPonte and Mozart for Cherubino, a musical boy who writes beautiful love songs for all his girlfriends.

 
No more honey-dripping for you, Punk! From now on, your ears will “sing” to you of war! 

 ~~Juliet Waldron
Take a little walk into my 18th Century world:
 
 
And because it's Nanina Gottlieb's birthday today and because she too--aged 11--sang in this opera:

 

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