In the beginning:                                                                                       

It's the summer of 1966, Hang on Sloopy was on the top ten, Knock three times on the ceiling was being played to death and I was bored as hell with being a State side Marine. I had been in the Corps for a little over a year and fresh off the boat from a cruise of the Mediterranean . The spit and polish of being a garrison Marine sucked after the relaxed atmosphere of the Med cruise. So I did what any red blooded American boy would do to get out of all the pomp and circumstance, I volunteered for Vietnam. Not only would I get out from under the lifer types but also a 30-day leave was an added bonus. My orders were cut and I went on leave to my little New England town of Lebanon New Hampshire. I left for home to spend time with my family, I don’t remember to much as it was party time most of the time. It’s amazing how many free drinks a man can get when he is off to war. I played it to the hilt and enjoyed every minute of sympathy I could get. I didn’t get it then why people were being so nice, but it sure as hell rang a bell as soon as I stepped in country.  I remember this certain time because before I left I went to say goodbye to my Grandfather. We visited for a good long time, and talked of all the wild and crazy things we both did while I was growing up. He lived with us from the time I could remember on up through my high school graduation. He helped raise this Marine. I really loved that old man and thought the sun set and rose on him. The time came when I had to say goodbye and we stood on the sidewalk out in front of his apartment. I hugged him and tearfully got into my car to drive away. As I looked In my rear view mirror I caught the visage of a thin, tall gray haired old man, dressed in a pair of loose fitting gray slacks, flannel shirt and a dark gray cardigan sweater. He was wiping the tears away and waving goodbye as he stood there sobbing in the street. I had grown up with him and he was more than just my Granddad, He was a friend with whom I could share anything. Little did I know this would be the last time I would see my Grandfather alive. He was killed while I was away serving my tour of duty in Vietnam. Here I was in a war zone and a police cruiser hit my Granddad after stepping off a curb in Podunk USA. Of course I didn't learn of this until after the funeral, maybe two weeks after. My parents never notified me until then. I was sitting in another shit hole in Vietnam when I got the letter from home. I wondered why I wasn't told; I could have gotten thirty days leave to pay my respects. I loved that old man, and I was some pissed when I wrote my parents. Hell I should have been used to this, after all they sold the house I grew up in while I was making the Med-cruise. How did I find out? I read it in the hometown newspaper somewhere of the coast of Africa. Can you imagine that, sifting through the pages of a twelve page town rag newspaper a thousand miles from home, and then like a like a mule kick right on the gourd I see a big sold sign pasted across a picture of the house I grew up in. This gave a new meaning to sharing a moment with my friends. I was just a tad vocal. I then wondered where the hell home was until I received a letter a week or so after I got the second hand news.  All I could say was “ You gotta be shitting me,” I got drunk, forgot my name, but at least I knew what port I was in, what ship I was on and where my bunk was. Just being grateful for the little things.