avalancher
Arboristsite Raconteur
this is going to be a long post, for which I apologize. Unlike most of my stories, I wrote it for me.
His Christmas Wish
This evening as I relaxed in my chair after a satisfying meal, my wife brought me a package that had come in the days mail from my mother. It was nothing unusual for her to send small packages in the mail, and as one of my favorite shows came to a close, I opened the package to find enclosed a second packet along with a short note from my mother. "This came in the mail for you a few days ago, so I thought I would forward it on to you. Looks like it came from a long ways away. Love, Mom."
As I examined the enclosed package, I noted that it had come from France, at least the customs form attached indicated that. Rolling it over in my hand, I noted a small bulge in the packet, and decided that someone had made a mistake of some sorts. After all, I dont really have any friends that I know of in France, and it was unlikely that Dupont had forwarded my complaints about their latest batch of French Fries on to French authorities. But, curiosity got the best of me, and setting aside an inner fear of perhaps opening a nice batch of Antrax from French Terrorists in retaliation for my complaints about their native side dish, I opened the package.
As I shook out the contents of the package into my palm, I was startled to see a Navy collar insignia of a Second Class Petty Officer. Along with the device was a short note.
"Dear Ed. As I sorted through some of my son's belongings I found this insignia, and I thought I would send it to you. I have kept your address all these years in the hope that one day I could return your kindness in some way, but the years have slipped by as they have a tendency to do. But I thought I would let you know that my son finally found his Poppa."
With Love,
Thérèse
As I read the note, my thoughts drifted back over time, and once again I found myself standing on that pier on a cold December night, so many years ago. Here is my story.
It was a cold December night, 1988, and I had drawn the dreaded Pier watch as we lay at anchor off the coast of Marseille France. It was my duty to stand guard on the pier as our liberty boats went back and forth to our ship, anchored quietly a half mile off shore. Sailors returning from a night on the town were often hampered in their efforts to walk down the plank to our waiting boats by an overdose of the local liquer, and sometimes curious townsfolks were tempted to board the boats in an effort to get a closer look at our ship that we called home, and the Navy saw fit to remedy the situation by placing a guard at the entrance of the pier to screen the pedestrian traffic as it passed by.
It was cold that night, cold enough that I was grateful for my peacoat and gloves, and I remember thinking as I stood under that street light that in an hour I would be relieved of my post, and once again would welcome my warm bunk on top of the forced draft blower that quietly hummed in our berthing area. Often I would complain that of all the places to build a bunk, why choose on top of a giant fan? But as I stood there in the quiet street, it did indeed seem that I really could not wait until my relief showed up and I could once again fall asleep among the rattling and humming of that giant fan.
As I stepped into our little guard shack to note on my log that 2300 hours had come and gone without a single altercation from a drunken sailor, my eyes swept up the street to spot a tiny bundle making its way down the dark street. Stepping out of the shack, I noted with some alarm that the bundle appeared to be a young boy, who's tiny legs were hardly a match for the strong winds that swept up the street. But with determination, the young lad made it down the street, and peering under my roof line, he asked me a single question. "Pardon monsieure, you are a sailor?" Startled by his perfect English, I replied, "Why yes I am son, that is my ship anchored out in the harbor." while pointing out our aircraft carrier over my shoulder. Satisfied, the young boy then stepped into my guard shack, tugged on my coat sleeve, and asked "Can you find my Poppa?"
I thought perhaps that the young boy was lost, and in an effort to hear him better over the wind, I sat down on bucket of flares left in our shack, and looking into his young face i asked him if he was lost, to which he replied that he was not lost but that his poppa was. As I sat there in my poor excuse for shelter, I noted the absence of a jacket, and that his little body was wracked with shivers. Indeed, I had a very troubled and concerned young boy on my hands that had ventured out in the cold to look for his poppa without a jacket, and my only thought was to call my Chief on the radio and ask for some assistance.
As I picked up my radio, his eyes grew wide and he asked if I was able to call his poppa on a radio, to which I replied that I had no idea who his poppa was, and had no way of knowing how to call him, but that I had a very kind chief that knew everyone and would probably be able to find him. Opening up my peacoat, I gestured for him to crawl inside with me, and I would do my best to find his poppa.
His Christmas Wish
This evening as I relaxed in my chair after a satisfying meal, my wife brought me a package that had come in the days mail from my mother. It was nothing unusual for her to send small packages in the mail, and as one of my favorite shows came to a close, I opened the package to find enclosed a second packet along with a short note from my mother. "This came in the mail for you a few days ago, so I thought I would forward it on to you. Looks like it came from a long ways away. Love, Mom."
As I examined the enclosed package, I noted that it had come from France, at least the customs form attached indicated that. Rolling it over in my hand, I noted a small bulge in the packet, and decided that someone had made a mistake of some sorts. After all, I dont really have any friends that I know of in France, and it was unlikely that Dupont had forwarded my complaints about their latest batch of French Fries on to French authorities. But, curiosity got the best of me, and setting aside an inner fear of perhaps opening a nice batch of Antrax from French Terrorists in retaliation for my complaints about their native side dish, I opened the package.
As I shook out the contents of the package into my palm, I was startled to see a Navy collar insignia of a Second Class Petty Officer. Along with the device was a short note.
"Dear Ed. As I sorted through some of my son's belongings I found this insignia, and I thought I would send it to you. I have kept your address all these years in the hope that one day I could return your kindness in some way, but the years have slipped by as they have a tendency to do. But I thought I would let you know that my son finally found his Poppa."
With Love,
Thérèse
As I read the note, my thoughts drifted back over time, and once again I found myself standing on that pier on a cold December night, so many years ago. Here is my story.
It was a cold December night, 1988, and I had drawn the dreaded Pier watch as we lay at anchor off the coast of Marseille France. It was my duty to stand guard on the pier as our liberty boats went back and forth to our ship, anchored quietly a half mile off shore. Sailors returning from a night on the town were often hampered in their efforts to walk down the plank to our waiting boats by an overdose of the local liquer, and sometimes curious townsfolks were tempted to board the boats in an effort to get a closer look at our ship that we called home, and the Navy saw fit to remedy the situation by placing a guard at the entrance of the pier to screen the pedestrian traffic as it passed by.
It was cold that night, cold enough that I was grateful for my peacoat and gloves, and I remember thinking as I stood under that street light that in an hour I would be relieved of my post, and once again would welcome my warm bunk on top of the forced draft blower that quietly hummed in our berthing area. Often I would complain that of all the places to build a bunk, why choose on top of a giant fan? But as I stood there in the quiet street, it did indeed seem that I really could not wait until my relief showed up and I could once again fall asleep among the rattling and humming of that giant fan.
As I stepped into our little guard shack to note on my log that 2300 hours had come and gone without a single altercation from a drunken sailor, my eyes swept up the street to spot a tiny bundle making its way down the dark street. Stepping out of the shack, I noted with some alarm that the bundle appeared to be a young boy, who's tiny legs were hardly a match for the strong winds that swept up the street. But with determination, the young lad made it down the street, and peering under my roof line, he asked me a single question. "Pardon monsieure, you are a sailor?" Startled by his perfect English, I replied, "Why yes I am son, that is my ship anchored out in the harbor." while pointing out our aircraft carrier over my shoulder. Satisfied, the young boy then stepped into my guard shack, tugged on my coat sleeve, and asked "Can you find my Poppa?"
I thought perhaps that the young boy was lost, and in an effort to hear him better over the wind, I sat down on bucket of flares left in our shack, and looking into his young face i asked him if he was lost, to which he replied that he was not lost but that his poppa was. As I sat there in my poor excuse for shelter, I noted the absence of a jacket, and that his little body was wracked with shivers. Indeed, I had a very troubled and concerned young boy on my hands that had ventured out in the cold to look for his poppa without a jacket, and my only thought was to call my Chief on the radio and ask for some assistance.
As I picked up my radio, his eyes grew wide and he asked if I was able to call his poppa on a radio, to which I replied that I had no idea who his poppa was, and had no way of knowing how to call him, but that I had a very kind chief that knew everyone and would probably be able to find him. Opening up my peacoat, I gestured for him to crawl inside with me, and I would do my best to find his poppa.
