Canon Shooter
Diamond Member
- Jan 7, 2020
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This is quite long so, please, grab a drink, have a seat and bear with me.
In November of 1991, following Desert Storm and not long before Thanksgiving, I was returning to the United States aboard an Air America flight out of the United Arab Emirates. We'd been gone for not quite a year, clearing minefields in the northern Arabian Gulf, and we were eager to get back home to San Diego.
We flew first to Sigonella, Italy, where we stopped loong enough to buy some cannolis and souvenirs. We were then supposed to continue on to Shannon, Irlenad but the pilot decided to go straight to the States.
Our first touch on US soil was in Bangor, Maine. As we taxied to the terminal, I saw a group of about a dozen and a half or so locals on an observation deck, waving American flags adorned with yellow ribbons. I called over one of the flight stewards and asked him about it.
"Oh, there's a local group that keeps tabs on the military flights coming through, and they come out and welcome the troops home."
"That's sweet", I thought. "It's nice the retirees here in ol' Bangor have something to occupy their time. I wonder if they carpool."
We deplaned and, as we stepped out of the jet-way and into the terminal, we were overwhelmed. There had to be 2,000 locals lining the walls of the terminal to welcome us home. We shook every hand and accepted every hug. I couldn't help but think how our homecoming was the exact antithesis of that experienced by our Vietnam Veterans a generation before us.
There was one couple there who was handing out homemade wooden Christmas tree ornaments, cut out in the shape of the Great State of Maine.
Attached to the yellow ribbon and the ornament was a bag of homemade cookies. There was a piece of paper tied to it, as well, but I never read it. After handing over the ornament and the cookies, the woman responsible gave every single one of us a warm hug to welcome us home.
We couldn't spend our money in the airport bar. The restaurant; whatever we wanted, was free for us. I got a cheeseburger and onion rings. It had been almost a year since I'd had an onion ring. It was amazing to see such an outpouring of respect, admiration and appreciation from complete strangers.
Well, as time went on, I lost track of that little ornament (admittedly, the cookies never made it back to San Diego). After a while I started to wonder about it, and I started to wonder about what might have become of the couple who were passing them out.
Last week, my daughter came to Florida to help celebrate my 60th birthday. She brought with her several items of mine which had found their way into her storage unit in San Diego. There were uniform and jacket patches, belt buckles, coffee mugs, cassette tapes... and one small wooden Christmas tree ornament, cut out in the shape of Maine, with a yellow ribbon tied to it.
Finally, this morning, almost 31 years after I first got it, I untied the ribbon and read what was written on the small piece of paper. It had the names and a mailing address for the couple who were passing them out to returning military folks back in 1991.
Through a few quick Google searches, I learned that both had passed on. I found an obituary for the wife, Lorna, in which was listed the names of those who survived the couple. I'm not sure why, but I felt compelled to try to contact them. The name isn't common, and a search on Facebook garnered quick results.
I sent a message to who I believed was the oldest surviving son. Apparently, he was online, because he replied almost immediately. He was, in fact, their son.
I apologized for barging in on his Sunday afternoon, but I introduced myself and told him why I was messaging him. He told me that his parents were strong supporters of our military troops, and always felt compelled to try to do something for them whenever they could.
The son said his parents weren't rich, but his Dad knew how to run a bandsaw and his Mom could give a master class on baking chocolate chip cookies.
We messaged back and forth for about 20 minutes and then said goodbye.
Every time I tell the story of returning home and landing in Maine, I get choked up; my eyes well up. I just can't help it. It's happening as I type this out on my computer. It was a feeling I'd never had before and, if I were a bettin' man, I'd say I'll never have again.
In a strange way it was cathartic to be able to share that story with the son of someone who helped make not only that day special for us, but every day special for every returning Soldier, Sailor, Airman and Marine who was lucky enough to pass through Bangor International Airport on their way home.
I wish I could've thanked them in person. But maybe they'll be looking down when, 31 years later, that ornament finds its special place on my Christmas tree this year...
In November of 1991, following Desert Storm and not long before Thanksgiving, I was returning to the United States aboard an Air America flight out of the United Arab Emirates. We'd been gone for not quite a year, clearing minefields in the northern Arabian Gulf, and we were eager to get back home to San Diego.
We flew first to Sigonella, Italy, where we stopped loong enough to buy some cannolis and souvenirs. We were then supposed to continue on to Shannon, Irlenad but the pilot decided to go straight to the States.
Our first touch on US soil was in Bangor, Maine. As we taxied to the terminal, I saw a group of about a dozen and a half or so locals on an observation deck, waving American flags adorned with yellow ribbons. I called over one of the flight stewards and asked him about it.
"Oh, there's a local group that keeps tabs on the military flights coming through, and they come out and welcome the troops home."
"That's sweet", I thought. "It's nice the retirees here in ol' Bangor have something to occupy their time. I wonder if they carpool."
We deplaned and, as we stepped out of the jet-way and into the terminal, we were overwhelmed. There had to be 2,000 locals lining the walls of the terminal to welcome us home. We shook every hand and accepted every hug. I couldn't help but think how our homecoming was the exact antithesis of that experienced by our Vietnam Veterans a generation before us.
There was one couple there who was handing out homemade wooden Christmas tree ornaments, cut out in the shape of the Great State of Maine.
Attached to the yellow ribbon and the ornament was a bag of homemade cookies. There was a piece of paper tied to it, as well, but I never read it. After handing over the ornament and the cookies, the woman responsible gave every single one of us a warm hug to welcome us home.
We couldn't spend our money in the airport bar. The restaurant; whatever we wanted, was free for us. I got a cheeseburger and onion rings. It had been almost a year since I'd had an onion ring. It was amazing to see such an outpouring of respect, admiration and appreciation from complete strangers.
Well, as time went on, I lost track of that little ornament (admittedly, the cookies never made it back to San Diego). After a while I started to wonder about it, and I started to wonder about what might have become of the couple who were passing them out.
Last week, my daughter came to Florida to help celebrate my 60th birthday. She brought with her several items of mine which had found their way into her storage unit in San Diego. There were uniform and jacket patches, belt buckles, coffee mugs, cassette tapes... and one small wooden Christmas tree ornament, cut out in the shape of Maine, with a yellow ribbon tied to it.
Finally, this morning, almost 31 years after I first got it, I untied the ribbon and read what was written on the small piece of paper. It had the names and a mailing address for the couple who were passing them out to returning military folks back in 1991.
Through a few quick Google searches, I learned that both had passed on. I found an obituary for the wife, Lorna, in which was listed the names of those who survived the couple. I'm not sure why, but I felt compelled to try to contact them. The name isn't common, and a search on Facebook garnered quick results.
I sent a message to who I believed was the oldest surviving son. Apparently, he was online, because he replied almost immediately. He was, in fact, their son.
I apologized for barging in on his Sunday afternoon, but I introduced myself and told him why I was messaging him. He told me that his parents were strong supporters of our military troops, and always felt compelled to try to do something for them whenever they could.
The son said his parents weren't rich, but his Dad knew how to run a bandsaw and his Mom could give a master class on baking chocolate chip cookies.
We messaged back and forth for about 20 minutes and then said goodbye.
Every time I tell the story of returning home and landing in Maine, I get choked up; my eyes well up. I just can't help it. It's happening as I type this out on my computer. It was a feeling I'd never had before and, if I were a bettin' man, I'd say I'll never have again.
In a strange way it was cathartic to be able to share that story with the son of someone who helped make not only that day special for us, but every day special for every returning Soldier, Sailor, Airman and Marine who was lucky enough to pass through Bangor International Airport on their way home.
I wish I could've thanked them in person. But maybe they'll be looking down when, 31 years later, that ornament finds its special place on my Christmas tree this year...
