Here's to the Warriors

Memorial Day 2012

I am sorry. It just doesn't sound right to wish each of you a, "Happy Memorial Day". To me the day is an important holiday, but it is also lightly wrapped in a sense of sadness.   It is like an old package left by our front door each year which I am hesitant to open. As I unroll our worn American Flag and walk down the driveway of our home, I think about the sacrifices of so many brave warriors and their families. Memorial Day is the lump in my throat when I hear taps. It is honor. It is country. It is about sacrifice.

On our grey driveway bordered by dark green grass, I explain to our eight year old son, Ryan the proper flag etiquette, "Don't ever let it touch the ground. Treat our flag with respect".  As I tell him, I think of the warriors. Men and women who at this very moment are in foreign countries around this world risking their lives to protect us.

When I was about Ryan's age my oldest brother, Mike was preparing for deployment to Vietnam. Mike had just celebrated his eighteenth birthday. I thought he had it made. He was grown up. He graduated from high school. He dated girls and he could drive. Mike even had a sharp looking US Army uniform. It was green with gold patches with a diagonal black stripe. I think it had a horse on it. Mike even had his very own bedroom while me and three of my brothers slept in two bunk beds located in our converted garage. In a three bedroom house with seven kids, having your own room was solid gold.

Mike's bedroom door was often shut. The door had slats on it, so I could tell when he was in there. I think he would sometimes smoke cigarettes because I would find his cigarette butts lying between the rocks in our front yard.   I knew he was leaving for Vietnam. The word was out. His room would be up for grabs.  

 The night before Mike left for Vietnam he would play the song, "Sky Pilot" over and over. To this day, whenever and wherever, I hear that song, I am transported back to that narrow hallway outside of Mike's bedroom door.

  

At such a young age I had no idea what war was. Innocence of youth. I did not know Mike was trading going to college to slog through a jungle with the acrid smell of napalm and death in the air. I certainly had no idea he was going to be tasked with killing as many of the enemy as possible while doing his very best to keep himself and his fellow soldiers alive. My dad knew.

Brother Mike US Army

In Vietnam, 33,103 of the 58,627 service personnel killed were the exact same age as my brother Mike was on that sunny afternoon when my dad took him to the Greyhound bus station in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  A time when so many young lives were just beginnning.  Sorrow brought home to families across this great country, with a folded American flag.  

My parents would watch Walter Cronkite on the national news every night. At times it seemed to be a running scoreboard of KIA's. I was too young to understand or dwell on it, but looking back, I know my parents did. Thank goodness our door bell did not ring often. My parents could spot a government car from a mile away. I am sure it is much like families today who dread a news flash, a tweet, or an email from far away countries like Iraq, Afghanistan, or elsewhere. With the instant communication via the internet and the constant threat of insurgents and IED's, it probably makes their lot even more difficult.

When my brother returned home after eighteen months in combat he still smiled and would wrestle with all of us, but he had changed. CLICK HERE to view a 30 second video of our famous wrestling matches with Mike. He was like our father before him. He never talked about what he had occurred in the war. The variety of ribbons and medals on his uniform were silent testimony to him being a proven warrior.

Though war was not discussed in our home, I recall vividly when my mom told us to wake up Mike the morning after he returned.  My little brother, Joe and I were so excited that we jumped on him in his sleep. It was an understatement to say his response surprised us. I was suddenly in the air. His yell and look in his eyes sent us scrambling. We were so naive. Even with that look in his eyes and the yelling, we thought it was pretty funny. Joe and I soon learned to get a stick or throw things at his bed to awaken him. He always jumped up in the same, strange manner. Brothers can be so mean.

He wasn't home very long when I saw my mom crying over her morning coffee. It took a day or two until all of us kids found out why. Mike had volunteered to return to Vietnam for a second tour. All I remember was Mike saying something like, "they need me". If I had to guess, (since I never asked him), the reason he decided to return to Vietnam was not as much for the people of Vietnam, the US Army, or even the President of the United States of America. I believe he did it for his fellow warriors. The young men in helicopters, the men on the ground and the men in the rice paddies. Knowing my brother, he did it for the eighteen year old kids without any experience that were dying so quickly. I think Mike returned to Vietnam to try and slow the number of folded flags and solemn faced men in government vehicles taking that long walk up to the front doors of homes across America, just like ours. I suspect Mike understood he could not stop it completely, because all warriors know someone must walk the point.

Brother Mike

What makes a warrior return? What makes people put the safety of others and their Country before themselves? l am always in awe of warriors. Another warrior friend of mine who fought in Vietnam is Tom Wagner.  Following a firefight, "Wags" was emergency airlifted out, likely feeling the rotor wash and hearing the rhythmic "thumping" of the Huey helicopter rotor blades as a young medic tried to stop the warm blood flowing from a few extra holes in his body. Despite his close brush with death, Tom returned as well to a different harm's way, by serving many more years with the San Diego Police Department.

I feel it is important to remember American service personnel who are on watch around this world, standing guard twenty-four hours a day. Proudly wearing the flag of our country on the upper sleeves of their uniforms. A flag frequently soaked with both their sweat and their blood. As we sleep in our comfortable beds, warriors are at the ready to respond anywhere in the world to protect our freedom.

Brother Rick USN

My brother Mike survived his second tour in Vietnam before going to war again in Iraq. One of my other brothers, Rick became a "brown shoe" or naval aviator like our father. His wife Jennifer was also a Naval Officer. Mike ultimately retired from the US Army and joined Boeing Aerospace to provide civilian support to our latest generation of warriors. Later this week, Mike leaves American soul yet again for another combat zone in Afghanistan. Like I said, warriors are a rare breed

My wish for each of you reading this, is that you and your families have a great Memorial Day. I do ask a personal favor. I am not requesting you to send a text, make a phone call, or send an email like American Idol. I am simply requesting a whisper. A whisper for our heroes past and present. Maybe while you are barbecuing, drinking a beer, petting your dog, or even rubbing your child's head, whisper a little, "thank you". I honestly think in some way all those whispers will be gathered by a higher authority and distributed to all warriors, past and present. Your thoughts may just help them to rest easier or to be even more vigilant in their dangerous and honorable duties.

I look forward to my brother, Mike returning to San Diego in 2013. When he does, I am going to take my mom's lead and tell all three of our young boys, Troy, Raymond, and Ryan to go jump on him in his sleep. My money is solidly on Mike.   Despite him being now in his sixties, I think all our boys will be tossed in the air, just like so very many years ago...
 

Sincerely, 

Ray & Theresa Shay 

Info@TrustShay.com

The Smile - Written by Ray Shay

I don't know if driving a long distance by myself is healthy. There is too much time to think. While driving on I -15 I listened to NPR, (National Public Radio) before channel surfing which included stops at Springsteen Radio and even some Elvis. I have always had a special spot for a few of Elvis's songs.

 

I got bored. I went through my checklist of family, friends, and work issues. I can't lie. A few work related items rudely pushed their way to the front of the line. I don't like that. The reality is, it happens.

 

As you may recall, I confessed last week that our seven year old son, Ryan asked me to play handball and I reluctantly agreed to play to a score of, "one". What kind of father agrees to play with their son for less than one minute?  You're looking at him.   As I passed the other cars near Corona, CA, people probably wondered why the guy in the Honda Element with the pictures on the side of his car was rubbing his balding head. It was because, I blew it.

 

I know many other parents struggle with this same issue every single day and sometimes late into the night. Working hard to provide for our families, while still trying to capture and maximize the precious time we have with our kids?  Time so fleeting.   Before we know it, they will transition to wearing the yoke of responsibility associated with young adulthood.

 

Reflecting on my childhood, I had a great dad. But in the balancing scale of family and work my father pretty much stayed on the work side.  He spent so much time there thinking about work as well as working, our mom and us seven kids were pushed up so high on the other end of the scale, I don't think he really saw us.  I thought I understood him, but in many ways, I really did not know him at all.  

 

Our dad was from what has been frequently called, "the greatest generation". He was not only a war hero, but post combat operations he worked night and day to prevent nuclear bombs from accidentally detonating.   He even kept small clumps of sand which is called Trinitite in an envelope hidden in his dresser drawer. It was sand that had been transformed into a strange glass substance during the incomprehensible searing heat of a nuclear explosion. He said he had a piece for each of us.  I'm sure a Geiger counter would chirp like an angry bird if it was anywhere near it.

 

I'm not sure how many nuclear explosions my dad witnessed as a Federal employee of the Atomic Energy Commission, (AEC). Later in life, he spoke of how they would attach local newspapers to wooden sticks outside the bomb shelter and the radioactive flash would actually burn out all the darkened letters. The scientists and engineers would then hold the newspapers in their hands mesmerized how all those darkened words and pictures would be vaporized cleanly from the white paper.

 

Our dad also worked on the weapons systems for the Stealth Bomber. He even invented a safety device called the, "Shay Collar" which was attached to live "pits" or nuclear bombs as they were being assembled.  As my dad said, "the collar kept evil people with long fingers from ruining a perfectly good day".  His dry sense of humor and understatement of cataclysmic events was legendary.

 

As a kid, I did not know he was funny. To me he was, The Great Santini. Someone you loved, but feared. I could not relax around him until many, many years later. To this day, I will never forget one afternoon when I saw the smile.  The type of smile I promised myself I wanted to share with my children so often, it would never be considered remarkable.

 

It must have been fifth grade. A science teacher in our school had us launch hot air balloons made of clear plastic laundry bags fastened to two sticks of balsa wood with birthday candles as the heat source.   In the cold, thin mountain air of Albuquerque, New Mexico they ascended quietly into the morning sky. It was wonderful. One of the balloons malfunctioned and never got off the ground. Our launch crew had managed to melt the dry cleaner bag. Though disappointed, I decided to hide the remnants of our airship in a trash can knowing I would return after school where I concealed the balsa wood pieces with their partially burned candles under my jacket for the walk home.

 

I sneaked into my parents bedroom closet where I carefully slipped a dry cleaner bag off of one of my dad's suits. I took my stolen plastic bag and ran into our back yard where I carefully reassembled the hot air balloon wondering if the remaining candles could actually provide enough heat to get the balloon into the air. The dead, cold, brown grass in our back yard crunched under my feet as I performed my delicate surgery.  I knew my dad would not be home for hours.  I took a pack of matches from the kitchen drawer next to my parents carton of, "Kent" cigarettes.

 

As the evening sun began dipping to the west, I clumsily got most of the remaining candles lit while trying not to burn myself or melt the dry cleaner bag. Magically, the hot air balloon began to levitate barely four feet off of the ground.  My heart was pounding in my chest because I thought it might really rise into the air escaping the effects of gravity and this lonely and cold back yard. I then heard the front door suddenly open.

 

The problem with our home was when the front door was open you could see across our family room into our back yard. I think I stopped breathing. I held my breath unable to move as the large glowing ball of light began to slowly rise into the air as my father stepped through our front door. I thought I was a dead man. I am not sure what caused his smile. Was it the science of it?  He set his briefcase down.  A special wonder seemed to spread across his face and then the smile.  A smile I will never forget. His eyes seemed to light up brighter then I had ever seen.

 

He said, "You did this", pointing the orb of light with the flickering candles. I responded with one word, "yes". At that moment, like a hesitant actor finally stepping onto the stage the balloon seemed to leap into the air and began floating up and over our wood shingled home. I immediately ran past my dad into the front yard to watch the balloon of light as it traveled quickly higher and higher with melting candles dropping from it like booster engines which had spent of all of their energy. I looked back at my dad as he stood on the front porch. The only word he said was, "fabulous".

 

As I ran with youthful vigor down the side streets by our home chasing the balloon I was filled with joy. I kept thinking about how happy my father was. Where did that smile come from?  A smile I remember as clear as if it happened yesterday.  And of course, I thought, I hope he does not miss that dry cleaner bag from his closet.

 

Yeah Ryan, Raymond, and Troy, work is important, but each of you are so much more important, even if sometimes I let you get pushed out of line....

 

 

Dad

 

 

Enjoy your children and your week!

 

Community Hub Grand OpeningPress Release

You know it is a busy week when our seven year old son, Ryan asks me to play handball in the driveway and my response is, "OK, I will play you to one"  I am such a looser.  Ryan  then responded, "C'mon dad" with the voice tone and infliction very similar to his grandpa, "Jimmy" that we are blessed to have live with us.  I relent and agree to play to two, (ultimately I gave our son about five minutes of my time and played him to five).  Like I said, I was a looser.

Another looser move this week was not mentioning my father in law,  "Jimmy" at our Grand Opening.  Many of you who stopped by the build out know he worked very hard making sure everyone was fed and taken care of, like he always does.  A great man!  Sorry about that Jimmy!  

So instead of writing my weekly article this week I played lots of basketball and handball with our boys on Mother's Day and told Jimmy I was sorry for not mentioning him.  I hope all you moms had a great day!  It really is more than a job and what you accomplish with our children is amazing.  If you would like to read the press release about City of San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders opening the World's First Community Hub, click here.

  

Have a great week!