Something else about the writer of this blog:

I’ve had a wonderful life. I was born during the depression into a family of five children at the time. After that, there would be three more. My mother would keep us all clean by use of a tub of water and a washboard, cared for all of us with our various illnesses, broken bones, and other things, cooked for most of that time on a wood stove, read to us at night by lamp light furnished by kerosene. She taught us to be courteous, considerate of others, and reliant for our own needs. To show you what this lady was like, one Christmas people came around collecting for the poor. She gave them the last two jars of blackberries she had planned to use for blackberry cobbler for our Christmas dinner. My mother would never have admitted to being poor or allowed any of us to feel poor. She was respected and loved by all her children.

In the late 20s, before I was born, my father had a small farm, but one day while chopping wood he nearly cut his foot off with an axe, and medicine being what it was at the time, he wasn’t able to return to working the farm for a long time, during which time the bank repossessed the farm. He didn’t become bitter, but always was good humored and quick with a joke. After this, he worked for a while cutting timber. One of the people he worked with was a black man who opened a small country store years later. Whenever we would go by there we would always stop for them to talk for a while. My father was a very easy going, even tempered man, but once someone accused him of dishonesty and he pulled the man off his horse and said he was going to pull the man’s lying tongue out. In trying to do so, he pulled two of the man’s teeth. For a while, his friends called him the dentist. One other time, my father had marked a bee tree, which meant in rules of the day that he had the right to rob that honey. Another man had his men rob the honey. My father used him so badly, he was bed-ridden for two weeks.

My father cherished his integrity and fairness and expected it of others. He worked hard all his life and expected it of us. He had four son, one a Marine in the Pacific in World War II, two sons in service during the Korean War, and one was stationed in Berlin during the Cold War. My father loved his country, he worked sick most of his life and died very young. I loved him very much. When I think of him, I think of “You’re a better man than I Gunga Din.”

Gunga Din a poem by Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was “Din! Din! Din!
You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ‘e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ‘im ’cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I’ll marrow you this minute
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

‘E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ‘is mussick on ‘is back,
‘E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide
‘E was white, clear white, inside
When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died,
“I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ‘im later on
At the place where ‘e is gone –
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!