Veterans of TOO.COM
- Thread starter "J"
- Start date
Something I had never heard before ….
www.americanrifleman.org
An Official Journal Of The NRA | Arms Of The Mail Guard Marines
While difficult to imagine today, brazen armed thefts of the U.S. Mail in the 1920s became all too common and beyond the abilities of mail personnel to handle. Enter the U.S. Marines—armed to the teeth.
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Came across this picture from 25 years ago. Rucked up the three tallest mountains in mainland South Korea in one day. Each about 6k in elevation. 45lb ruck. Ruck to the top and back down, hop on the truck and go to the next one. Before each one we were given a brief on the battles and lives required to take the peaks. Rucking up them I remember thinking about the men who took each of those summits inch by inch under heavy fire carrying ammo, charges, and weapons. When the terrain would suck worse than usual, and in some spots it SUCKED, i remember a few spots where it was so steep I had to lean so far forward to counter the ruck i could have touched the ground with only half an outstretched arm. When the quit started creeping in I'd remember those guys and what they would have given for such an easy ascent to the top. I could see them in my minds eye sitting along the trail, rifles in their lap, bloodied, dirty, cold, smoking a cigarette, some covered in tarps. I wasn't about to quit and turn around, failing felt like i was failing them, all I had to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. If memory serves me correct it was a total of 32 miles and 18k feet of elevation. All total i think it took 22 hours. That skinny fucker was a ruck marching SOB.
Bottom left kneeling. The guy I'm grabbing hands with was Darel from Brooklyn. The guy top right was Joey from LA, often confused with one of our KATUSAs (male mandatory service soldiers in south Korea). Then you had my Bama ass. Coast to coast. The other guy is just some dork ass captain .
Judging by my lack of rank this was my 2nd time being an E-1, I would go on to achieve the rank of E-1 once more that year.
Bottom left kneeling. The guy I'm grabbing hands with was Darel from Brooklyn. The guy top right was Joey from LA, often confused with one of our KATUSAs (male mandatory service soldiers in south Korea). Then you had my Bama ass. Coast to coast. The other guy is just some dork ass captain .
Judging by my lack of rank this was my 2nd time being an E-1, I would go on to achieve the rank of E-1 once more that year.
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Ah, memory lane regarding my multiple attainment of the E-1 rank. Years later, my 1Sgt wanted me to go fishing with him. It was likely because he had found out i knew the on base lakes like the back of my hand. When the platoon leader told me to meet Top at the ramp Saturday, I met Top at the ramp. We spent most of the day on his boat, and as an E-5 buck sargeant, I jokingly told my 1SGT (E-8) that I outranked him. How so Sgt? Because I've been promoted more times than you top. "You really like being a fuckn private, don't you, Sergeant?"OH come on Top, don't tease me like that, the most you can bust me down to is an E-4 "yeah but I can make your life hell." "You win Top, You win"
It's even funnier because Top knew damn well I didn't want my stripes. I was perfectly happy being an E-4. The $300 a month wasn't worth the added responsibility and expectations. I was in a new MOS in technology with a very young enlisted footprint, and they were pushing me. Minimum promotion points, so all I had to do was exist to make points, I bombed my voluntold promotion board. Somehow, I still made the damn promotion list. Top had to have fudged my board review for that to happen.
It's even funnier because Top knew damn well I didn't want my stripes. I was perfectly happy being an E-4. The $300 a month wasn't worth the added responsibility and expectations. I was in a new MOS in technology with a very young enlisted footprint, and they were pushing me. Minimum promotion points, so all I had to do was exist to make points, I bombed my voluntold promotion board. Somehow, I still made the damn promotion list. Top had to have fudged my board review for that to happen.
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Stressless
Well-Known Member
In 1783, King George III asked an American painter what George Washington would do now that he had virtually won the war. The painter replied that the General intended to return to his farm in Virginia. The King was stunned. He reportedly said, "If he does that, he will be the greatest man in the world."
Throughout history, victorious generals almost always seized the throne. From Caesar to Cromwell, military success usually meant political dictatorship. The concept of voluntarily walking away from absolute power was practically unheard of.
But George Washington wasn't like other men.
By December 4, 1783, the British surrender at Yorktown was past, and peace was finally assured. Washington commanded a powerful, seasoned army that adored him. Conversely, many of his officers were unpaid and angry at the inefficient Congress. They had the guns, the manpower, and the loyalty to install a new monarch.
He could have been King George I of America.
Instead, on this day in history, Washington walked into the Long Room at Fraunces Tavern in lower Manhattan. The room was filled with his most loyal officers—men like Henry Knox and Baron von Steuben—who had frozen with him at Valley Forge and bled with him for eight long years.
The atmosphere wasn't celebratory. It was heavy with inevitable separation. Washington, usually stoic and commercially reserved, poured a glass of wine and looked at his brothers-in-arms with visible emotion.
"With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you," he said, his voice shaking. "I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable."
He didn't order them. He didn't demand their allegiance. He hugged them.
One by one, the hardened soldiers wept openly. Washington embraced each man in silence. There was no pomp, no ceremony, and no speeches about future conquests. It was just a quiet goodbye between warriors who had done the impossible.
Immediately after leaving the tavern, Washington didn't march on Congress to demand payment or power. He rode to Annapolis, Maryland, resigned his commission, and went home to Mount Vernon to plant crops.
He did the impossible.
He refused the crown.
He trusted the people.
By stepping down, he ensured that the United States would be a republic ruled by laws, not a kingdom ruled by force. He proved that the military serves the people, not the other way around. It was the final, and perhaps greatest, victory of the Revolution.
The world watched in awe as the American Cincinnatus returned his sword to its sheath, proving that character is the strongest constitution of all.
Sources: Mount Vernon Ladies' Association / Library of Congress
#history
#hearhear! #raisedmyglass
Throughout history, victorious generals almost always seized the throne. From Caesar to Cromwell, military success usually meant political dictatorship. The concept of voluntarily walking away from absolute power was practically unheard of.
But George Washington wasn't like other men.
By December 4, 1783, the British surrender at Yorktown was past, and peace was finally assured. Washington commanded a powerful, seasoned army that adored him. Conversely, many of his officers were unpaid and angry at the inefficient Congress. They had the guns, the manpower, and the loyalty to install a new monarch.
He could have been King George I of America.
Instead, on this day in history, Washington walked into the Long Room at Fraunces Tavern in lower Manhattan. The room was filled with his most loyal officers—men like Henry Knox and Baron von Steuben—who had frozen with him at Valley Forge and bled with him for eight long years.
The atmosphere wasn't celebratory. It was heavy with inevitable separation. Washington, usually stoic and commercially reserved, poured a glass of wine and looked at his brothers-in-arms with visible emotion.
"With a heart full of love and gratitude, I now take leave of you," he said, his voice shaking. "I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable."
He didn't order them. He didn't demand their allegiance. He hugged them.
One by one, the hardened soldiers wept openly. Washington embraced each man in silence. There was no pomp, no ceremony, and no speeches about future conquests. It was just a quiet goodbye between warriors who had done the impossible.
Immediately after leaving the tavern, Washington didn't march on Congress to demand payment or power. He rode to Annapolis, Maryland, resigned his commission, and went home to Mount Vernon to plant crops.
He did the impossible.
He refused the crown.
He trusted the people.
By stepping down, he ensured that the United States would be a republic ruled by laws, not a kingdom ruled by force. He proved that the military serves the people, not the other way around. It was the final, and perhaps greatest, victory of the Revolution.
The world watched in awe as the American Cincinnatus returned his sword to its sheath, proving that character is the strongest constitution of all.
Sources: Mount Vernon Ladies' Association / Library of Congress
#history
#hearhear! #raisedmyglass
JARHEAD
Active Member
I stopped breathing at exactly 10:15 AM inside a Goodwill on the south side of town.
I was only there because my daughter, Sarah, is moving me into "Sunrise Meadows" next week. That’s the polite name for the place old people go when their kids run out of patience and spare bedrooms. Sarah was three aisles over, aggressively sorting through my life, tossing things into donation bins while talking loudly into her AirPods about square footage and "decluttering."
I let her do it. When you are eighty-two and your knees click like a rusty gate, you learn that fighting takes too much energy. You just become a passenger in your own life.
I wandered off to the men’s section to escape the noise. The store smelled like other people’s laundry detergent and forgotten dreams. I was shuffling past a rack of oversized hoodies and flannel shirts when the room suddenly started spinning.
There it was.
Olive drab. M-65 Field Jacket. The zipper was still busted on the left side, stuck halfway up. The right cuff was frayed—I did that, chewing on the fabric during the monsoon season of '69 when the rain didn't stop for three weeks.
Someone had slapped a neon yellow sticker right over the breast pocket: $14.99.
My chest tightened. I reached out, my hand shaking. The moment my fingertips touched that rough canvas, the fluorescent lights of the thrift store vanished.
I wasn't an old man with a pacemaker anymore. I was nineteen. I was standing on red dirt, the humidity thick enough to drink, feeling invincible because I had a rifle in my hand and three brothers at my back.
I pulled the jacket off the rack. It felt heavy. Heavier than I remembered.
I turned it inside out. My breath hitched.
There, on the inner lining, written in black permanent marker that had faded to a ghostly gray:
MAC. RIZZO. "DOC" MILLER. ARTHUR.
We wrote those names forty-eight hours before the ambush near the border. We passed that marker around, laughing, making jokes about who would get the girls when we got back to the States. We thought we were writing in a yearbook. We didn't know we were signing a last will and testament.
I was the only one who came home.
And now? Now Mac, Rizzo, and Doc were hanging on a discount rack between a stained polo shirt and a ugly Christmas sweater. Priced cheaper than a DoorDash lunch order.
"Yo, that fit is fire."
The voice snapped me back to 2024.
I turned around. A kid was standing there. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. Curly hair falling over his eyes, oversized jeans that dragged on the floor, phone glued to his hand.
He reached out, not asking, just assuming. "You buying that, Pops? 'Cause if you aren't, that’s a serious find. Vintage military is trending right now on TikTok."
I held the jacket tighter. "I... I’m just looking."
"Let me see it?" The kid stepped closer. He didn't look mean, just fast. Everything about his generation is fast. Fast scrolling, fast talking, fast fashion.
I handed it to him. My hands felt empty and cold immediately.
He slipped it on. It was too big for his skinny frame, but he popped the collar and turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle. He pulled out his iPhone, snapped a selfie, and swiped.
"Sick," he muttered. "Actual authentic wear. Look at that distressing on the cuffs. You can't fake that."
"No," I whispered. "You can't fake that."
He shoved his hands into the pockets. He paused. He felt the uneven lining. He took the jacket off and looked inside. He saw the names.
"Whoa," he said, his thumb tracing the faded ink. "Who are these guys? Previous owners?"
I stepped into the reflection of the mirror with him. The contrast broke my heart. A boy with his whole life ahead of him, and an old man whose life was being packed into cardboard boxes.
"They weren't owners," I said, my voice cracking. "They were brothers."
The kid looked up, phone lowered for the first time.
"We were your age," I told him. "Mac—the first name there—he wanted to be an architect. He drew sketches in the mud with a stick. Rizzo could fix any engine with a paperclip. And Doc... Doc wrote letters to his mom every single day."
The store went quiet around us. The hum of the vending machine seemed to stop.
"What happened to them?" the kid asked softly.
"They stayed nineteen forever," I said. "I’m the only one who got old enough to shop at a thrift store."
The kid looked down at the jacket. He looked at the $14.99 sticker. Suddenly, the "vintage aesthetic" didn't seem so cool. It seemed heavy.
He started to take it off, peeling it from his shoulders with a sudden reverence. "Here. Take it. I didn't know. You should have it, sir. It’s yours."
I looked at the jacket. If I took it, I’d just hang it in a closet at the nursing home. It would sit in the dark, smelling of mothballs, until I died. Then Sarah would donate it right back to this same rack.
History dies when you lock it away.
"No," I said.
The kid froze. "What?"
"I’ve carried the weight of that jacket for sixty years," I said. "It’s heavy. I’m tired, son. Maybe it’s time for it to go on a new adventure."
"I can't take this," he shook his head. "It feels... wrong. Like stealing."
"I’m okay with you taking it," I said, locking eyes with him. "On one condition."
He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. "Name it."
"If anyone asks you about that jacket—if anyone compliments your 'drip' or asks where you got that 'vintage look'—you don't tell them you got it at Goodwill for fifteen bucks."
My voice stopped shaking. It became the voice of a Sergeant again.
"You show them the names on the inside. You tell them that Mac wanted to build skyscrapers. You tell them Rizzo loved classic cars. You tell them Doc loved his mother."
I poked a finger at his chest, right over where the heart is.
"You tell them that the freedom to stand here, scrolling on your phone, safe in a warm store... it was paid for by boys who never got to come home. You make them real again. Can you do that?"
The kid didn't look at his phone. He didn't look around. He looked at me.
"I promise," he said. And he meant it.
He walked to the register. I watched my youth, my pain, and my friends walk out the door with a teenager who listens to rap music and probably has never held a rifle.
It hurt. But it healed, too.
Because that jacket isn't collecting dust anymore. It’s walking down the street. It’s going to concerts. It’s living.
As I walked out to the parking lot to meet my daughter, I passed a bin of old photo frames. $1.99 each. Beautiful black and white wedding photos, pictures of babies laughing, soldiers saluting. Someone once loved those people more than life itself. Now, they are just clearance items.
We all end up on the clearance rack eventually. Our favorite songs become "oldies." Our clothes become "costumes." Our stories become "too long" for the younger generation to listen to.
But here is my favor to you:
The next time you see an old man moving slow in the checkout line, or staring a little too long at a coffee cup in a diner... don't look through him.
We aren't invisible. We aren't just obstacles in your busy day.
We are walking libraries. We are holding onto names that no one else remembers.
Say hello. Ask us how we are. Give us ten seconds of your glowing, buzzing, high-speed life.
Because one day, sooner than you think, a kid will be trying on your favorite hoodie and calling it "vintage." And you will pray to God that someone, somewhere, still believes your name is worth more than $14.99.
I was only there because my daughter, Sarah, is moving me into "Sunrise Meadows" next week. That’s the polite name for the place old people go when their kids run out of patience and spare bedrooms. Sarah was three aisles over, aggressively sorting through my life, tossing things into donation bins while talking loudly into her AirPods about square footage and "decluttering."
I let her do it. When you are eighty-two and your knees click like a rusty gate, you learn that fighting takes too much energy. You just become a passenger in your own life.
I wandered off to the men’s section to escape the noise. The store smelled like other people’s laundry detergent and forgotten dreams. I was shuffling past a rack of oversized hoodies and flannel shirts when the room suddenly started spinning.
There it was.
Olive drab. M-65 Field Jacket. The zipper was still busted on the left side, stuck halfway up. The right cuff was frayed—I did that, chewing on the fabric during the monsoon season of '69 when the rain didn't stop for three weeks.
Someone had slapped a neon yellow sticker right over the breast pocket: $14.99.
My chest tightened. I reached out, my hand shaking. The moment my fingertips touched that rough canvas, the fluorescent lights of the thrift store vanished.
I wasn't an old man with a pacemaker anymore. I was nineteen. I was standing on red dirt, the humidity thick enough to drink, feeling invincible because I had a rifle in my hand and three brothers at my back.
I pulled the jacket off the rack. It felt heavy. Heavier than I remembered.
I turned it inside out. My breath hitched.
There, on the inner lining, written in black permanent marker that had faded to a ghostly gray:
MAC. RIZZO. "DOC" MILLER. ARTHUR.
We wrote those names forty-eight hours before the ambush near the border. We passed that marker around, laughing, making jokes about who would get the girls when we got back to the States. We thought we were writing in a yearbook. We didn't know we were signing a last will and testament.
I was the only one who came home.
And now? Now Mac, Rizzo, and Doc were hanging on a discount rack between a stained polo shirt and a ugly Christmas sweater. Priced cheaper than a DoorDash lunch order.
"Yo, that fit is fire."
The voice snapped me back to 2024.
I turned around. A kid was standing there. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. Curly hair falling over his eyes, oversized jeans that dragged on the floor, phone glued to his hand.
He reached out, not asking, just assuming. "You buying that, Pops? 'Cause if you aren't, that’s a serious find. Vintage military is trending right now on TikTok."
I held the jacket tighter. "I... I’m just looking."
"Let me see it?" The kid stepped closer. He didn't look mean, just fast. Everything about his generation is fast. Fast scrolling, fast talking, fast fashion.
I handed it to him. My hands felt empty and cold immediately.
He slipped it on. It was too big for his skinny frame, but he popped the collar and turned toward the smudged mirror at the end of the aisle. He pulled out his iPhone, snapped a selfie, and swiped.
"Sick," he muttered. "Actual authentic wear. Look at that distressing on the cuffs. You can't fake that."
"No," I whispered. "You can't fake that."
He shoved his hands into the pockets. He paused. He felt the uneven lining. He took the jacket off and looked inside. He saw the names.
"Whoa," he said, his thumb tracing the faded ink. "Who are these guys? Previous owners?"
I stepped into the reflection of the mirror with him. The contrast broke my heart. A boy with his whole life ahead of him, and an old man whose life was being packed into cardboard boxes.
"They weren't owners," I said, my voice cracking. "They were brothers."
The kid looked up, phone lowered for the first time.
"We were your age," I told him. "Mac—the first name there—he wanted to be an architect. He drew sketches in the mud with a stick. Rizzo could fix any engine with a paperclip. And Doc... Doc wrote letters to his mom every single day."
The store went quiet around us. The hum of the vending machine seemed to stop.
"What happened to them?" the kid asked softly.
"They stayed nineteen forever," I said. "I’m the only one who got old enough to shop at a thrift store."
The kid looked down at the jacket. He looked at the $14.99 sticker. Suddenly, the "vintage aesthetic" didn't seem so cool. It seemed heavy.
He started to take it off, peeling it from his shoulders with a sudden reverence. "Here. Take it. I didn't know. You should have it, sir. It’s yours."
I looked at the jacket. If I took it, I’d just hang it in a closet at the nursing home. It would sit in the dark, smelling of mothballs, until I died. Then Sarah would donate it right back to this same rack.
History dies when you lock it away.
"No," I said.
The kid froze. "What?"
"I’ve carried the weight of that jacket for sixty years," I said. "It’s heavy. I’m tired, son. Maybe it’s time for it to go on a new adventure."
"I can't take this," he shook his head. "It feels... wrong. Like stealing."
"I’m okay with you taking it," I said, locking eyes with him. "On one condition."
He straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. "Name it."
"If anyone asks you about that jacket—if anyone compliments your 'drip' or asks where you got that 'vintage look'—you don't tell them you got it at Goodwill for fifteen bucks."
My voice stopped shaking. It became the voice of a Sergeant again.
"You show them the names on the inside. You tell them that Mac wanted to build skyscrapers. You tell them Rizzo loved classic cars. You tell them Doc loved his mother."
I poked a finger at his chest, right over where the heart is.
"You tell them that the freedom to stand here, scrolling on your phone, safe in a warm store... it was paid for by boys who never got to come home. You make them real again. Can you do that?"
The kid didn't look at his phone. He didn't look around. He looked at me.
"I promise," he said. And he meant it.
He walked to the register. I watched my youth, my pain, and my friends walk out the door with a teenager who listens to rap music and probably has never held a rifle.
It hurt. But it healed, too.
Because that jacket isn't collecting dust anymore. It’s walking down the street. It’s going to concerts. It’s living.
As I walked out to the parking lot to meet my daughter, I passed a bin of old photo frames. $1.99 each. Beautiful black and white wedding photos, pictures of babies laughing, soldiers saluting. Someone once loved those people more than life itself. Now, they are just clearance items.
We all end up on the clearance rack eventually. Our favorite songs become "oldies." Our clothes become "costumes." Our stories become "too long" for the younger generation to listen to.
But here is my favor to you:
The next time you see an old man moving slow in the checkout line, or staring a little too long at a coffee cup in a diner... don't look through him.
We aren't invisible. We aren't just obstacles in your busy day.
We are walking libraries. We are holding onto names that no one else remembers.
Say hello. Ask us how we are. Give us ten seconds of your glowing, buzzing, high-speed life.
Because one day, sooner than you think, a kid will be trying on your favorite hoodie and calling it "vintage." And you will pray to God that someone, somewhere, still believes your name is worth more than $14.99.