What the hell…I might as well jump in with both feet and find out whether I’m acceptable here at TAH or not. In all the years that have passed since I came home from Vietnam and married my little West Texas beauty, there have been a couple of things about my own behavior that I don’t quite understand. If there’s a shrink out there among you, I’d love to hear your opinion although there’s absolutely no guarantee I’ll even listen to it being the cranky old bastard I am.
Two things: the act of standing out on my porch or my deck at night, looking into my home where my wife and animals are happily content has always filled me with a special pleasurable feeling I can’t define. Think that country song “On My Front Porch Looking In,” and you’re getting close.
Second, I just can’t begin to tell you how much satisfaction I derive from pissing off my porch.
Yep, you heard me right. There is a singular definition of freedom which I have long maintained is one which will be readily recognized by millions of combat veterans, especially those like me who chose to forgo the lucrative allures of the great metropolises for the freedom of small towns or rural living. Since returning from a tour in Vietnam nearly half a century ago, I fear I have met a certain profile, that of the society-shirking, space-seeking, leave-me-the-hell-alone veteran. I never gave a rat’s ass for rehabilitation programs, choosing to deal with my demons as so many have chosen to do, that is, thinking them through them and figuring them out, recognizing that there was nothing unique, nothing special about the demons I dealt with; they inhabited us all. Any human being who has engaged in lethal combat with other humans, in actions where casualties have occurred, on your side or the other, knows of what I’m speaking here.
Yes, to make a living I had to be out and about in the world, flying all over the country and interacting with others, who fortunately for me, were mostly military people. But in all those travels and activities, what I always treasured most was my home, with my beautiful wife and our animals. And during all those decades, a thing I’ve always made sure I had is enough space, between my own home and the folks living closest to me, to have the freedom to piss off my own porch. That’s right: let ‘er rip right off my porch. I’ll bet that if you surveyed infantry combat veterans you would find this to be ranked right up there in personal freedoms, a thing that evokes a visceral response from those who have been there and done that. In combat, pissing is something you do with trepidation, knowing that if you do it standing erect you’re an exposed target, unless hopefully you find a sheltering tree. So we’re talking about something that civilians will never have to even consider and most assuredly do not understand: pissing in combat can cost you your life and is therefore, a tight-ass, butt-clenching event.
For a combat infantry veteran, even one in the burbs, standing on the deck or back porch of his home, the idea of freely pissing off that deck or back porch into those same woods or his small back yard with total impunity and buttocks unclenched, is one of the very basic freedoms he has fought for. I say this with the assurance of one who knows, full well, that sublime sense of satisfaction that accompanies the act of letting it go, whizzing without fear into and onto that property which is yours; and I know full well the two thoughts that flow through the mind: First is, “Damn, that feels good,” and second is, “And I’ve damned well earned the right.”
Label me rude and crude…there are so many before you that you’ll need to get in line; but those who’ve been there and understand me will know that I damned well speak the truth.
Just a thought: you suppose there’s any chance of getting Jane Fonda buried right below my deck?
