My given name is James, but nobody calls me that. More on that later.
___________________
Before I get too far into my tale, let’s set the tone by introducing you to an outstanding young American tenor named Austin Brown:
The National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, better known to locals and tourists alike as “Punchbowl,” formed around 100,000 years ago as a volcanic crater that looms over central Honolulu, several miles from the better-known Diamond Head. A little over a year after the Pearl Harbor attacks, the territorial governor of Hawaii offered the land to the War Department as a final resting place for soldiers killed in the war that was raging on across the world. Funds were short, though, until Congress, under pressure from veteran’s groups and parents who wanted their relatives’ bodies repatriated to American soil, finally appropriated the money for construction of the cemetery in 1948.
___________________
In many ways, my maternal grandparents were a typically American story. My grandmother could trace her relatives in the Colonies back to the seventeenth century, while my grandfather was the son of folks who came through Ellis Island. Somehow they found one another, fell in love despite their disparate backgrounds, got married, and had a couple of kids.
My mother Virginia was the elder of the two. A diligent student, she made her way to a college down in Florida, graduated, and got married.
Her little brother, James, was also a bright kid, as well as a gifted athlete, but he was indifferent about his studies at the state university, so he dropped out after a year and joined the Army.
The Army, realizing Uncle Jimmy’s native intelligence, gave him no small dose of advanced training and assigned him to be the right-seater in the Grumman OV-1 Mohawk, a bug-eyed, tri-tailed, but highly advanced (for the time) reconnaissance aircraft that could spot the enemy via visual, electronic, or even infrared means.
There was a war going on at the time in Vietnam, so it was natural that Uncle Jimmy’s squadron would be rotated there, and he was. Missions were routine, just monitoring the North Vietnamese Army’s movements via the electronic suite, since they used the cover of darkness in an attempt to conceal their movements.
Then one winter evening, a few weeks after his twenty-third birthday, James and his pilot took off on another milk run over the Vietnam – Cambodia border, and…
Nothing.
No distress call. No missile flare. No plume of smoke. No Vietnamese propaganda release about a shootdown. Just disappeared, swallowed up in millions of square miles of remorseless, indifferent jungle.
“WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU…” were the first words on the telegram, and that was that. A good kid, the All-American boy that every father wanted his daughter to marry, the ornamentum of his mother’s eye, His Majesty The Baby of just twenty-three years before, had dropped off the face of the earth. Forever.
_______________________
The crown jewel of the Punchbowl cemetery is the Honolulu Memorial. One of three run by the American Battle Monuments Commission in the United States, it features a statue of Lady Columbia, her feet perched on the bow of a ship. Folks of a certain age remember her as part of the most badass television show intro of all time:
I was the first kid born in the extended family after Uncle Jimmy’s MIA status, so naturally I was named after him. I couldn’t be called that, though, because any mention of the words “James” or “Jimmy” would send Grandma into a spiral of despondence that would last for days, sometimes over a week. Okay, then. Lots of guys go by their middle name. Only my parents further diminutized my middle name Peter into “Petey.”
It got worse.
Mom worked for a printing company that mostly did music album covers and comic books. Back in the late 1960s, Marvel came out with a Dennis the Menace ripoff called Peter the Pest. I have no insight into the female brain, but “Pesty” became my mother’s pet nickname for me.
That would’ve been fine in the confines of our house, but no. I’m playing in a Little League game that Mom had found the time to attend, and during my first at bat, Mom decides to cheer me on. “C’MON, PESTY! GET A HIT, PESTY!” This did not go unnoticed by the opposing team’s dugout. Eight-year old kids being inveterate assholes, every single plate appearance was greeted by kids jeering “Pesty! Pesssssty! PESSSSSSTY!” The catcalls continued at school and on the diamond for the rest of the year. To say it got under my skin would be an understatement.
_________________________
It being the mid-1970s by then, my grandparents retired and moved to Florida about forty-five minutes from where I was living at the time. My parents got divorced, Mom fell on hard financial times, and eventually she sold our little house in Tampa and we moved in with her parents.
My grandparents, to their credit, endeavored to show me the grandeur of the United States, figuring that I may as well see it when I was a kid, rather than trying to tote me along as a sullen teenager. I took a road trip to see the national parks of the American West with them in 1978, then we went to Hawaii in 1979. We saw all the typical sights, and I remember hearing the accounts of several survivors of Pearl Harbor (there were lots of them around back then). Of course, due to me seeing the statue of Lady Columbia on countless episodes of Hawaii 5-0, I had to go to Punchbowl.
_______________________
Flanking the statue of Columbia in Punchbowl are the Courts of the Missing, upon which the names of all 18,095 of those lost at sea or missing in action are recorded on eight enormous vertical limestone tablets. A few steps down the staircase from those names are a further 8,210 who were never recovered during the Korean conflict.
Two thousand, five hundred and four names of those missing in action in Vietnam were added in 1980.
_________________________
My grandparents were right about taking me traveling while I was still young. In high school, I ventured off for one summer to Scotland, and two to Jamaica (as a Southern Baptist missionary, no less). But at home, I was still Petey, or even “Pesty” sometimes. It bristled.
Then came the college acceptance letters. I got into the state flagship university, but I also got into the Ivy that was the brass ring that I’d reached for. Kickass SAT scores still counted for a lot in those days. Grandpa quickly put an end to that discussion. “It’s fifteen hundred miles away, and fifteen thousand dollars a year. No.”
So State U it was. But now, I was a long way from my little town where everyone called me Petey, and no one knew me, even mockingly, as “Pesty.” I could re-invent myself as the former high school scholar-athlete who turned down a prestigious college, and I could be James. Or Jimmy. Or Jim. I decided I like James best.
My classmates, my new fraternity brothers, my professors, they all called me James… and I liked it.
I had come home a few times during my freshman fall semester, and endured going from man-about-campus James to “Petey” during my short weekends. But things came to a head in November.
I arrived home late at night the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Unbeknownst to me, my grandparents had invited a bunch of their friends from up north to Thanksgiving dinner. They all knew the story of what had happened twenty years earlier, because they couldn’t not know. After grace had been said, maybe ten minutes into the meal, my grandmother looked at me and asked, “Petey, would you like more stuffing?”
I stated confidently, “Grandma, I’m not Petey anymore. I go by James. Get used to it.”
Immediately, I saw every head at the table – Grandpa, Mom, Grandpa’s Shriner buddies, close friends from church – slowly turn in my direction, like the turrets from a company of tanks.
My grandmother’s eyes clouded over and she looked down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I… just can’t do that.” Without another word, she left her seat and retreated toward her bedroom.
I shifted my eyes to my right, where my grandfather was sitting at the head of the table. He stared at me for a few long seconds, then got up and took a step to his left, towards me. I thought he might slap the ever-loving shit out of me for my impudence, but he just reached for a picture on the wall over my right shoulder, one that I’d passed so many times over the years that it was just part of the scenery. It was the photo of a young, square-jawed kid with Grandma’s fair skin and Grandpa’s dark hair and eyes.
He held it about a foot away from me.
“This is James. You have his name, but you are not him. In this house, you are Pete, if that’s okay with you. If it’s not okay with you, you don’t have to come here anymore.”
He then went into his and Grandma’s bedroom. I sat in silence, enduring the looks from the other adults that was somehow worse than the “Pesty” chirping of my youth.
A few minutes later, the two of them emerged from the bedroom and sat down.
“So, Pete,” my grandmother said, “Would you like some more stuffing?”
I ate in silence while the dinner conversation picked up as normal for a holiday meal.
______________________
1989: My mother decided that she’d like to take me to Hawaii as a college graduation present. She’d never been there, so I think the trip was as much for her as for me. At our hotel in Waikiki, she asked if we could make a trip to Punchbowl. No problem to rent a car, so off we went. She didn’t reveal to me until we were on our way that she wanted to visit the grave of a childhood friend. They share the same birthday, though he was several years older. When I got her there and saw his marker, I did the math: he had perished in the Battle of Saipan while fighting with the 2nd Marine Division, about six weeks before his eighteenth birthday. Pondering on that for a moment, I recalled that six weeks before I turned eighteen, my biggest worry was if my high school girlfriend would let me get my hand under her bra after taking her to the dollar movies on a Friday night. He was seventeen, and going after hardened soldiers dug into caves, the entrances hidden by thick underbrush, on an island that most Americans couldn’t find on a map now.
His grave was in the shade at that time of the day, so I told Mom that I was going to make a quick trek up to the Columbia memorial to see it up close again. I ascended the stairs and saw it, but noticed the new addition to the Court of the Missing. Curious, I deviated and wondered…
Then I saw it.
There was my name. Our family surname is rather uncommon, so there could be no doubt.
It hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. My grandfather’s rebuke echoed in my head.
All my supposed difficulties in my pampered suburban life, which amounted to being saddled with a couple of monikers that I bristled under or getting turned down for a school dance or getting a bad grade in a research paper, were nothing compared to what one or two generations before me had actually suffered – a son who was lost with no body to bury, or a son who was buried thousands of miles from home, where his parents couldn’t ever visit.
Turning back to face the broad lawn of the cemetery, I read the words of the poet Archibald MacLeash on the end of the column:
WE LEAVE YOU OUR DEATHS
GIVE THEM THEIR MEANING
Staggered, I eventually made my way back to where Mom was waiting. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Little did she know.
1994: I had begun what eventually became a pretty good career, and was getting married to a girl whom my grandparents wholeheartedly approved of (my mother, sensing a rival, somewhat less). To Mom’s credit, she only slipped and called me “Pesty” once during the rehearsal dinner. I had the world by the tail. My grandparents were pleased as punch that I had turned out pretty well.
They would both be dead within a year.
My grandfather had a massive heart attack while tending his garden on Christmas Eve. Tough bastard that he was, he held on until six on Christmas morning. Burying him on one of those grey January days when the leafless trees stick up out of the ground like quills on a hedgehog, I saw my name again.
Someone from the local VFW had contacted the Veteran’s Administration and arranged for a cenotaph – a marker for which there is no body – to be placed in the family plot. Uncle James was still lost forever, except in the memories of whomever came to visit that little area.
Grandma passed that July. The doctors called it metastatic breast cancer, but I can’t be convinced that it wasn’t from a broken heart.
____________________
EPILOGUE – In the 1990s, the United States began working with the Vietnamese government to find and identify servicemens’ remains that had been lost or were unretrievable during the conflict. Eventually, villagers in a rural province were interviewed, and provided dog tags and bone fragments from a plane crash from decades before that were turned over to Army officials.
In 1998, SP4 Jimmy and his pilot were identified by DNA sequencing. Later that year, their combined remains were returned to America and buried together with full military honors.
Uncle James was home.
Mom passed a few years later. At her burial, I noted that someone at the VA had received word of Uncle Jimmy’s return, and updated the cenotaph to read “VIETNAM MIA 1966-1998.”
2019: I took my wife to Hawaii for our twenty-fifth anniversary. After a fun-filled week on Lana’i, and a few days on the north shore of Oahu, we headed toward Waikiki so she could get some shopping in. On the way, I stopped at Punchbowl, just to visit my mom’s friend, who never has anyone visit his grave. His parents are long dead, and his only sibling passed away in infancy, so I might be the only person around who knows anything about him. It seemed important to me.
As we got back in our rental car, my wife (who knows this story) reached into her purse and brought out a piece of stationary and a small pack of Crayola crayons.
“Dear,” I said, “I wasn’t planning on giving snacks to the Marines today.”
She replied “People go to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington all the time and make etchings of their buddies’ names. Maybe you want to do that for your uncle.”
I thought for a moment. “I can’t do it. I’m not big enough.”
She probably imagined that my name on the wall was too high for me to reach. She’s right, but not in that way.
We drove back to Waikiki in silence, her looking at the Honolulu skyline, while I thought about the man I’ll never be.
Anyway, my given name is James, but everyone calls me Pete. Now you know why.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This will be the only Post today.
Thank you, Pete.
Good stuff Shpip, or should I say “JP”.
RIP James
Excellent, thank you.
Saipan was a wild bloody thing that most Americans have long forgotten about. My old Marine unit was there so I had it drilled into my head. It’s also where the climax of the book Battle Cry by Leon Uris takes place.
This was an excellent tribute.
+1
+1
(and not one pun)
-1 USMC snack crack
Fantastic.
I know when I’ve finished reading a great story because it leaves it leaves a mark inside.
Thank you! And RIP James.
I’m named after my uncle. The same exact name. He, fortunately, came back from Vietnam. It sometime causes confusion at family gatherings.
Thank you so much for sharing these stories (and for doing a marvelous job in telling them).
Damn, heavy stuff to start the day with, but appropriate.
They say one lives as long as someone remembers and says your name. Every Memorial Day I remember one who made the ultimate sacrifice. My dad, six uncles and one aunt served in WW2. One, whom I never met, did not come home. 2nd Lt. Richard Alvin Walter. Army Air Corps
KIA over Burma, Oct. 1942. He’s buried in the Punchbowl and I’ve visited his grave. Today, perhaps every Glib could post the name of a service member whose name we should remember?
My father and his three older brothers all served in WWII and, thankfully, all came home alive. The only connection I know of to one who did not was the one whose name was on my POW/MIA bracelet when I was a kid: Captain David Eugene Padgett, U.S. Army 82nd Aviation Company
Eugene my great uncle died at Saipan during WWII. My grandfather and all four of his brothers were spread across the services and in every major theater. My grandfather barely made it out of Italy after being seriously wounded.
My mother’s first husband, I’m not sure she even told me his name, died in combat during the Anzio battle. If he had survived I’d be half Jewish.
No one in my direct family has seen combat since the civil war, when a young Jewish immigrant from Praja landed in Missouri in 1856. He, family name Popper, became a sapper for the confederate states. Fortunately he survived.
Both grandfathers had essential jobs during WWII.
My father, other side, was tentatively accepted to West Point but couldn’t pass the vision test, which worked out well for me, as I saw enough of my friends fathers fucked up from that.
Neither of my grandfathers fought either. At the time of Pearl Harbor, maternal grandfather had four kids with a fifth (my mom) on the way. On Dad’s side, his parents fled Nazi Germany once Grandma learned she was pregnant with my dad, who became an anchor baby although nobody used that term in the day. Dad claims Grandpa spent some time interned while all the citizenship stuff was being figured out. I don’t know the full story since Dad was much too young to understand what was going on while Grandpa obviously wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it. (Grandma died before my parents got married; Grandpa married another German immigrant, and our step-grandmother was the woman we knew as Grandma.)
Dad’s grandmother, however, remarried here in the States and her second husband (died in I think the 1940s) is buried in an overgrown part of the same cemetery where my mom is buried. Some years back the town historian learned that the guy fought in World War I and arranged to have one of those miniature American flags grown on his grave. And then they learned that he fought for Germany.
Both of my grandfathers were in the metals industries. One of them actually tried to enlist but his boss caught word of it, went down to the induction center, and yanked him out of line.
One grandfather was old and worked as a petroleum engineer so did not join. Both his sons served during the war. The eldest son was in the 101st Airborne. The youngest son was a flight engineer. My other grandfather joined the infantry and fought in the Pacific.
I’m not sure about my dads bastard dad, but my moms was a TWA pilot and deemed unfit for the army air Corp because he had partial color blindness so he trained army air Corp pilots instead. Grandmas second husband was an aviation mechanic and ground crew guy in Kansas.
Dads moms last husband was too young for WWII and missed Korea, but got drafter after and spent time in Germany and fort lost in the woods.
Vietnam rolled around and one of my dad’s half brothers joined the marines and went. Dad joined the army instead of being drafted and was two of his basic training class that didn’t get sent to infantry school and off to nam.
No one in my unit even got hurt by enemy action in Iraq or later in Afghanistan (I missed that trip), even if they lie and said they did.
My grandparents were both in the Navy during WWII. One enlisted several years before to get away from potatoes and was at Pearl until shortly before the attack when he was sent to an advanced school. Was offshore of both North Africa and Normandy. The other, a Midwest boy, ended up in the Pacific. Spent time in both Portland and Astoria according to his service record. He died before I was born so I treasure even tenuous connections. Dad was in the Army for four years during VN, but was stationed elsewhere.
Thanks to Rumsfeld, my NG battalion’s activation got cancelled and my ETS went as scheduled after all. Only made it as far as Kuwait during OSW. Good enough for “combat” according to the VA, but it wasn’t by a long shot. Later when they were activated a couple years later, had several KIAs including two I knew.
Was thinking about them recently because one of the squad leaders from my company has since gone into politics. Mayor of a small town and now nominee for the statehouse in November. Was not expecting that since the party establishment went all out for his opponent. Another (a leftist) has been a perennial carpetbagger candidate has so far not made it into office. Do appreciate his work on veterans suicides though.
That’s a great tribute. I’m glad someone found your Uncle and got him home.
RIP
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/15358079/manley_warren-darsnek
Walking…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkj4GEr51tU
My cousin was a fighter pilot posted to the Philippines late in 1941. He departed on a lone patrol early in the war and disappeared.
His name is likely on a different, yet similar wall.
verily
Yes
My buddy Sam and I put out a Humvee fire from an IED that killed an E7 and a Chief.
I went to their service as I needed to know them as they were before that moment.
Twenty years later I find that I have forgotten their names.
Currahee gents.
“EDITOR’S NOTE: This will be the only Post today.”
OK, well here is a nice story.
“Construction worker returns $30K found in Wawa bathroom to rightful owner — who sold Pokémon collection to cover sister’s medical bills”
https://nypost.com/2026/05/24/us-news/florida-man-returns-30k-found-in-bathroom-to-rightful-owner-who-sold-pokemon-collection-to-cover-sisters-medical-bills/
No idea how someone could leave $30K in a public bathroom.
Just like cops that leave there service weapons in them.
I found an M4 in a barber shop once.
I want to buy that guy a beer.
We were in a hardware store in Dawson Springs, KY (this was before the tornado wiped away 1/2 the town) getting some dirt to do some infill at my wife’s family’s cemetery. My wife found an envelope on the counter with about $2k in it. She turned it in, they knew whose it was, he came back in for it while we were still there. He had cashed his paycheck, then come in to buy something and laid it down.
We could have walked out with it and been gone well before he got back, but that would just be wrong.
It’s good to know there are still people with a functioning moral compass.
It was around Christmas, and I found a wallet in a Kroger parking lot as I was going in. I asked a cashier to get me a manager (I wasnt going to hand it to anyone). Waiting around I see a guy with a cart overflowing with groceries, looing panicked and checking all his pockets. I walk over and said “lose something?”.
After giving me name so I could look at his license I told him it was in the parking lot. He had just gotten paid and his cart was full of Christmas dinner.
That’s an excellent tribute and quite a family story.
Wonderful.
Thanks, shpip.
Cooling Poverty and Thermal Justice
Wait, you’re saying some places are hotter than others? This changes everything!
“Thermal comfort and gender affirmation: A virtual ethnography of extreme heat among trans women in Rio de Janeiro”
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0277953624009353
SCIENCE!!
Oh come on, that is not real.
The multisensory experience of feeling hot, breathless, sweaty, and weak during heat spells among transgender people is a critically understudied area in both medical anthropology and thermal comfort research.
Just took a break from the garden, didn’t realize I was trans…
A lot of Vietnamese are Trans.
When I was younger, I put a lot of effort into achieving that state.
My hvac went out and it cost $11,500 to replace.
Where my money?!
All I’m getting out of that is “gimmie your money”.
No, fuck off.
I’ve got a bone to pick with Gavin Newsom about my electric bill. Now pay me.
It’s early yet, but there’s a pretty good chance this will be the stupidest thing I read today.
This was perfect. Thank you.
I have no such stories in my family. All 4 of my grandparents came through Ellis Island in the 1920’s. There were only 3 men in that next generation, and they were done with their service before Vietnam ramped up.
Our current “weak men make hard times” phase is due in part to people not hearing these stories every day. That’s a good thing and a bad thing.
“I have no such stories in my family.”
Me neither, and for the same reason.
Dad does have some stories about the Cuban Missile Crisis and JFK’s assassination. For the former, he wasn’t worried, he was just pissed because they made him stay on base, and it was his weekend to come home.
My cousin was an only child. His burial flag was passed to my mother and to me. It is now on my wall. Underneath is a Japanese officer’s sword my grandfather brought back from the Philippines.
As the officer’s family likely couldn’t keep the sword it’s better you have it.
Firearm and Sword Possession Control Law
OTH, for Yosegaki Hinomaru (flags) if nobody wants them they can be repatriated.
https://obonsociety.org/eng
Ive said it before and I’ll say it again.
The U.S. was too hard on the Japanese. They should have all been allowed to keep their family swords and their service weapons.
This Japanophile is fairly neutral on this. Japan’s treatment of POWs and human rights violations in WW2 were horrific.
But a great number were simply young men drafted who died honorably. War sucks. Full stop.
I always thought the US not fucking around when it came to Japan and Germany is why they are (mostly) friendly places today.
That’s my take on it too. Along with being benevolent during the post war period.
Really moving article, thank you!
My grandfather and his 2 brothers served in WWII as Army. My Dad, and Uncle, and a cousin all served in the navy. I chose army.
I think my Dad named me to insure a lifetime of stupid jokes. Even now when he introduces me its, “Let me show you my little Peter…”
Just never gets old, Dad.
He should have named you Richard so he could ask people if they’ve seen his Dick.
I went to high school with a guy named Richard Holder. He was older than me and I didn’t know him very well but he was apparently a wonderfully nice dude. I guess that is the play, you have to be so positive and so good that people legitimately feel really badly about making fun of your name.
Or William so he could show off his Willy
There are some last names that limit naming options.
When I was at the steel mill, I had to do new employee training for environmental. As I was looking through the sign-in sheet I saw a guy named “Richard Rash”.
That had to be rough.
Poor relation of Dick Trickle?
Family down the street from my parents moved in. My mom went to school with the mother. I came for a visit after I moved out and asked who were the new neighbors.
She said , “oh, the Dicks are moving in”. I burst out laughing.
*moment of silence*
These articles come in pairs.
“Sydney Sweeney goes completely TOPLESS again in wild Euphoria tryst as show kills off one of its biggest superstars”
https://www.dailymail.com/tvshowbiz/article-15845859/Sydney-Sweeney-Euphoria-jacob-elordi.html
“Sydney Sweeney’s racy scenes risk derailing her career – as experts fear she will make nudity ‘her entire brand’ rather than making ‘character choices'”
https://www.dailymail.com/tvshowbiz/article-15846085/Sydney-Sweeneys-racy-scenes-risk-derailing-career-experts-fear-make-nudity-entire-brand-making-character-choices.html
What streaming service is that show on again?
Experts
I will defer to this “expertise” if they can show me a few times in which they were right about something like this.
It’s complicated.
https://www.justwatch.com/us/tv-show/euphoria
Are these the same experts that helped run Hollywood into the ground?
I’m admittedly unfamiliar with her work, but I kind of doubt she’s ever been hired even once in her entire career because of her prowess as a thespian.
“Pesty; short for Pestilence.”
experts fear she will make nudity ‘her entire brand’ rather than making ‘character choices’
She should branch out into psychotic manipulative harridan roles. People will love that. She could play Hillary Clinton. Or Lady Macbeth, if she’s looking for a more relatable and sympathetic character.
My two brothers and I did 5 VN tours so Clinton, Bush Jr, Cheney, Trump and Biden could hang out doing “better things”. The oldest was a Purple Heart guy from Korea as well.
Ask me why I won’t vote.
Thanks for this, Shpip. Heartfelt and well said.
To be fair, “Pesty Pete” is a fucking outstanding nickname for a Little League-r. I’m short and earned “Short Fry” in my youth, sometimes shouted out by foes during my baseball days. (Great lesson in l̵e̵e̵r̵i̵n̵g̵ ‘leaning into’ it to show I don’t ruffle easily.)
I hope you were a pesKy slap-hitter, a tough out. Goes for the rest of y’all, too. Don’t give up your at-bat.
*stares at self in mirror*
“Left Field R.J.”
Nice to meet you, Pete.
Background noise
That same morning, at some point, a group of concerned neighbors installed large metal planter containers on 97th, 98th, and 102nd streets off of Aurora Avenue N, with a typed letter attached to them explaining that they were there to try to deter illicit activity and gun violence perpetrators from being able to spill over into the adjacent neighborhoods.
——-
“North Aurora has been abandoned by the city; there’s been an absolute lack of leadership across the board,” Jake stated.
He says that earlier in the day on Saturday, he and a few others met Seattle Mayor Katie Wilson’s Public Safety Executive Operations Manager for Public Safety, Alison Holcomb, in response to the early-morning shooting and complaints about gun violence that had been repeatedly sent to the Mayor’s office.
Jake says Holcomb extended an offer to organize a meeting with community members. He says he appreciated her coming out in person to speak with them, but that it fell short of expectations.
“She provided absolutely zero, tangible solutions or actions that the Mayor’s office is willing to take to protect us,” he said.
The mayor has bigger fish to gut, like all those evil oligarchs wrecking Seattle’s quality of life.
Can’t they have a gun buy-back or something? Obviously there are too many of them on the streets, walking around and shooting people.
Too complicated. Just post some Gun Free Zone signs and call it good.
Let me guess who they voted for….
Other residents who congregated on Saturday evening cited that they supported the planter containers, as some say they’ve seen the benefits of the connecting streets being closed down.
Maybe they should erect a gallows.
Time to go full rooftop Korean.
My grandparent’s generation was the WWII one. Also WWI great granduncle for my dad’s side. He was selected by the family to establish his clan in the US from a poor sub-village in Italy’s toe in 1912. When Italy entered WWI he returned “to fight for his country” and died on his second day at the Alpine front. After the war my great grandfather was selected to go back to America because the sub-village was still below dirt poor. He was already married so he brought his eldest two sons with him- one being my grandfather. When WWII came around my grandfather was working for a RR so wasn’t drafted. His brother was and was an infantryman in the ETO. He returned fine and used the GI bill to become a dentist. Something about the Army stuck with him and he retired from the Army as the top dentist. My paternal grandmother’s family had worse luck. Her brother was drafted and was a gunner in a B-17 that disappeared in a dirty gray puff when struck by flack. He was MIA until eventually declared dead after the war and his name is on the wall of the missing at US Military Cemetery in the UK.
Years later my grandma was suffering from dementia, and I went to visit when the Army sent me TDY near their home. When I walked in my grandfather was going to introduce me to her when she said, “Stop it. I know my own brother.” and she remonstrated me for “Not coming home and worrying the family so much.” The entire visit I was treated as her lost brother. I was uncomfortable but could not bring myself to correct her. That visit was the last time I ever saw her.
I guess it demonstrates that the missing can be harder that the known dead for the families.
Now if you’ll excuse me I am going to walk on the beach and remember my Soldiers who died under my command in Iraq.
I’ll walk with you, vicariously
Heartbreaking, but in a way, maybe that was a belated catharsis for her. Good on you.
Hat tip to Shpip for the great submission.
When listening to and watching this keep in mind it doesn’t show the Punch Bowl or the many smaller military cemeteries on US soil near Civil War and Indian Wars battlefields.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Omd9_FJnerY&list=RDOmd9_FJnerY&start_radio=1
A wonderful moving tribute. I like the way you wove the various threads of the tale together.
I did not serve, but my father did in WWII. 15th AAC B17 unit out of Tunisia and southern Italy in ’44-45. After that experience he claimed he never felt fear again for himself. My mother was a Rosie the Riveter during the same period. They met years later at college when he cut in on her during a dance and she begged him not to leave her (she disliked her previous partner). He didn’t until he died over 60 years later.
When I remember what he went through then (and he had it good compared to the grunts on the ground) and the abject poverty he grew up in in southern Appalachia I always try to remind myself how good I have had it. And who paid the ultimate price and how many so that I could live the life I’ve had.
My grandfather, also a veteran, was born within a month of William Nelson but lived much longer (Army, Europe).
Your grandfather couldn’t wait to get on the road again?
Thanks for reading this, y’all.
This wasn’t easy to write, but I thought the story needed to be told.
Thanks for writing it, Shpip.
RIP James and William.
I just read this and wish to add my voice to the chorus of appreciation for this heartfelt and well-written piece.
I’m named after my layabout, alcoholic, drug-abusing, wife-beating biological father. His middle name was James. I’d rather have had that one. Although then you’ll almost inevitably end up a Jim, or worse, Jimmy, which I don’t care for. Anyway, he joined the marines and did his stint in Vietnam, mostly as a tunnel rat owing to his wiry build, from what I’m told. Needless to say he made it back, and spent the next 20 years generously distributing his putrid genes among a half dozen or so women. Whenever I read these types of stories of the noble and decent young men whose lives were squandered there while that asshole made it home to smoke and drink away his VA benefits and ruin a few dozen lives, the injustice of it all is galling. I take a little solace in the words of whatever old sage actually wrote Ecclesiastes:
“nor favor to men of ability; for time and chance overtake them all.”
What? I wished I’d known this 50 years ago. Would have saved me a lot of hours that I could have used for fishing
Gotta respect the commitment to the grift here:
Crowdfunded game has raised $1BB with a “b”.
Starting in 2012.
And hasn’t released a damn thing.
This time with the link.
Beautiful story, Shpip.
My great-uncle Frank is in the American Cemetery in Normandy. I visited that cemetery when my wife and I went to France, but they occasionally close sections to allow the grass to recover, so I wasn’t able to see the headstone.
Dad served during the Korean War, but as a mechanical engineer, he was stationed in Kentucky. The only story I remember him telling about the army was why they called one guy in the unit “the wedge”: “Mankind’s simplest tool.”
I have visited the Arizona Memorial and the Punch Bowl, both were somber experiences. I developed an interest in WWII history in high school, especially the Pacific Theater. I devoured every book in the school library. Later on I learned that one of my best friends father who was also our baseball coach had served in the Navy during WWII. I asked my friend what ship his dad was on and he said he didn’t know, his dad never talked about it. I found it odd he didn’t know the name of the ship and that picqued my interest. I decided to ask his dad myself after our next practice. I was flabbergasted to learn that he had served aboard the heavy cruiser USS Vincennes which was sunk during the Battle of Savo Island off Guadalcanal August 9, 1942. I tried asking him about his experience but he made it clear that topic was off limits. When I told my friend about what transpired between me and his dad he told me he wasn’t surprised, his dad would never talk about the war and would get angry if pressed.
New and different
According to the Detroit Free Press, industry analysts say consumers are starting to grow tired of seeing the same SUV shape everywhere. Karl Brauer from iSeeCars described it as “SUV fatigue,” with buyers increasingly wanting vehicles that stand out rather than blend in. That trend appears especially strong among younger drivers. Research from Escalent found that 51% of teenagers surveyed picture themselves driving a sedan in the future, compared to just 31% who chose SUVs.
Automakers are beginning to notice, too. Ford CEO Jim Farley has repeatedly hinted that the company could re-enter the affordable sedan market in the US, with many speculating a new sub-$40,000 sedan. That would mark a major reversal for Ford after abandoning traditional sedans years ago in the States. Stellantis could also be preparing a return to the segment, with reports suggesting Chrysler may introduce a new sedan-like vehicle in the future.
Strangely enough, quite a few car companies around the world have been successfully making and selling sedans all along. It’s almost as if the decision to abandon sedans was a uniquely American phenomenon. The question is whether it was driven by the market or the boardroom.