Traits like honor, integrity, compassion, and respect are not traits you, all of a sudden, decide to accept as personal traits on a particular day and go forth from that point on as a person worthy of being identified as owning these traits. These traits are developed and honed over time through actions and deeds that demonstrate these traits. It requires an intentional and determined effort. As these traits are practiced they become who we are; like muscle memory of a repeated action they demonstrate themselves without an intentional thought to implement, but rather are implemented out of habit. It is also required that these actions be implemented without thought of personal gain.
A friend of mine (COL William Galbraith) once wrote, “The leadership philosophy of a senior leader is developed through years of experience and education. A philosophy of leadership is a statement or idea that guides how an individual will lead. If an individual starts to develop a leadership philosophy when appointed as a senior leader then the potential for failure is prevalent. The philosophy we use to lead is not something we can turn on and off like a light switch; it is who we are and those we lead know this. The development of a leadership philosophy is conducted in conjunction with the development of who we are. What motivates a leader on a personal level will, in part, define the leadership philosophy.”
Likewise, our philosophy defines who we are and who we are defines our philosophy. It’s a given if you lack honor, integrity, compassion, and respect you’re probably a jerk. A jerk cannot just arbitrarily start to be a person of integrity. You cannot, because of guilt felt after an action or deed, decide on Saturday to be a person of honor and compassion starting at sunrise on Sunday on your way to Church. As stated by my friend who is much smarter than I, “…the potential for failure is prevalent.” You are destined to fail and repeated failure will eventually lead you to the belief that you being a person of worth is beyond your capabilities and you’ll go back to being whatever caliber of jerk you were the day before—perhaps worse, because now any lingering doubt about whether or not you were a jerk to begin with has been removed and now you are an angry jerk.
However, the scenario played out in the last paragraph may not be all together true—which means there’s hope for you yet. You can be a person of integrity, honor, compassion and respect, regardless of your caliber of jerk-hood; you just need a strong desire and you need to cater the approach. These traits are developed and applied, not applied fully developed. Let me lead you down a rabbit; bear with me for just a minute. I consider myself a good person, but I also consider myself a failure. I am my own worst critic. People tell me I’m a good person, but they don’t know my secrets. I know that God forgives and I will be eternally grateful for that; and I use the term “eternally” in the most literal of terms. But I have a hard time forgiving myself for past actions. People say, “but you should forgive yourself” because these were done long ago (some not so long ago) and you have been forgiven and hanging on to them will only drag you down. I think the guilt helps me when a desire (or temptation if you will) comes along and prods me to do or say something that defy honor, integrity, compassion or respect. I remember the guilt and often (but sadly not always) the temptation goes away. I remember the feeling I have when I approach God and ask, “Lord, can you forgive me just one more time?” Remembering the guilt is a tool, it’s helpful to me.
OK, let’s get back on track. You can adopt a desire to do and say the right thing. You can adopt a desire to be a better person. Will you, after accepting this new you, always be a person of honor, integrity, so one and so forth? No. You will fail, but with each successful attempt the failures will dissipate, not completely but a reduction in failure is as good as a win. Will you eventually, after years of trying, get to a point where you will never fail? No. There will always be failures. However, with each failure you can, if you have the foresight to do so, learn a lesson that will come in handy the next time that option presents itself. I might add here if you are at a point in your life where you feel you have mastered the traits of honor, integrity, so on and so forth, then you may not possess any of them; pride trumps them all. Just sayin’.
In full disclosure I must say this will be the hardest thing you will ever do. It is something you will have to “want” with every once of energy. Start small, maybe yield the right of way in traffic and let someone in. Of course I must also say, if this is too hard for you, there is an easier way; just be a jerk your whole life and be remembered as such. Like Bill says, “…what motivates us will define us.” What defines us is who we are.
I have a great job. I spent 23 years on active duty intermixed with an additional 4 years as a traditional reservist. After I retired from active service I worked as a government contractor for 2 years after which I left contracting for a job with the Department of Defense as a Department of the Army Civilian and I’ve been doing that for 12 years. Barring a few years in the late 70’s and early 80’s I have spent my entire adult life as a soldier or working with soldiers. I’ve been to the four corners, several countries in Europe, Asia, Netherlands, Middle East, Far East, and patches of remote solitude in the Atlantic and the Pacific. I’ve even had the opportunity to fly a P3-Orion a 1000 feet above the Atlantic off the coast of Iceland. Sadly I’ve never been to Africa or Australia. I’ve seen things and done things most cannot comprehend let alone understand with any level of acceptable acuity. Most of it was good and, as those who have walked this path know all too well, some not so good. Regardless, I cannot imagine anything this side of life as better. All in all, it is a life well spent.
At present—present as in “on this date that I am writing this”—I am at Fort Lewis, Washington; known today as Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Been here a few days on a temporary assignment and will head back to my normal duty station tomorrow morning. I’m wrapping things up and currently in a “wait-mode” for some final actions to be completed. My attention has been drawn to some activity outside the window. Two busloads of young soldiers are drawing their issue of needed equipment at a warehouse across the street. Most are very young and I suspect they have just arrived at Lewis-McChord after completing their Basic Combat Training (I think they may call it Initial Entry Training now) or maybe they have arrived from a previous duty station after completing their Advanced Individual Training.
Their adventure is just beginning. Where they go from here, which unit they will be assigned to, or what their position will be in that unit is unknown to me. But I wish I could go talk to each and every one of them and offer up some hard-learned advice. But I would never do that. I remember what I thought when old retired soldiers came up to me and gave me advice when I was a young soldier just starting out; I had no need of their advice because I already knew everything I needed to know. They were an irritant to me. I see now that was a regrettable mistake; certainly a missed opportunity that could have made my life as a young soldier easier, a bit more accomplished, and much more fulfilling.
However, I wish I could bestow upon them words of wisdom; perhaps not wisdom but at least that bit of advice that we all need from time to time. I would tell them to pick their friends wisely. Just because a person wears the same uniform and is perhaps in the same unit does not mean they are trustworthy enough to be a trusted friend and confidant; a person you can trust to watch your back and who will run to your aid during times of trouble and hardship. Many are, but the “few” are not. The intent of the few is to deceive and take as much from others as they can by their self-serving interactions, to mislead and misdirect. Sadly, the ability to recognize these “few” comes only after being burned a few times.
I wish I could bestow upon them words of warning. That every personal action has a reaction and is sometimes emphasized with ill-fated consequences. We all make mistakes but not all have the integrity to “man-up” and take responsibility for our own actions. Take note and check-fire on an attitude that can lead to that face to face encounter with the Command Sergeant Major.
I would tell them to take as much time as needed to identify the Warrant Officer, Non-Commissioned Officer, or Commissioned Officer that everyone respects, that everyone goes to when confused or in trouble, and after identifying that person to emulate their actions, their attitude, and their professionalism. By doing this they too will eventually become that person others seek out when dire circumstances warrant. They can be that trusted professional who by words, actions, and deeds, can change the course of a life.
Yea, that’s some of what I would tell them. But they are young and must learn from their mistakes just like we all did. I wish them luck, I wish them well, and I envy them; their adventure, if they have the foresight to see it as such, is just beginning.
It has been said that the tongue is sharper than the sword. Words can cut deep and cause more damage than a sword and whereas a cut from a sword will heal the 2nd and 3rd order effects of words linger on and on, often a lifetime. But words can also bring light and warmth.
During an interview with Ken Burns, the creator of some of the best documentaries ever, it was said many of the narrations used during the making of the epic “Civil War” documentary came from journals written by soldiers who actually participated in the battles. Letters written to family members and actual journals maintained by soldiers and by-standers from both sides of the conflict. Two things come to mind here. The first is that the soldier thought it important to write their story and the second, the families that saved these letters and journals.
Today we are quick to read a note or letter (or email) and then discard or delete it as trash. We read it, so no need to clutter our existence with the paper it was written on or waste the storage space on our hard drives. Right?
Perhaps not. Words carry weight and words written have a place, often a cherished place if we use the proper words with the proper intent. We just don’t realize it. Today at work I was looking for an OPORD. I’ll not get into what an OPORD is because it really has no merit with regard to this thought. While looking I found a letter sent to me by my sister and inside was a copy of a story written by my Aunt Lora about my Aunt Nita when they were young. I set aside the search for the illusive OPORD and again read the story written by my Aunt Lora. It was a letter telling of memories of her younger sister (my Aunt Nita) while they were growing up.
It is a toss-up on which of these two wonderful ladies is the most precious to me. They both display a grace and generosity that is hard to find in so many other people I associate with. My Aunt Nita recently passed away and I believe it is that passing that precipitated the writing of that collection of memories; memories that would have been lost were it not for a desire to share them by my Aunt Lora. The memories included snippets about Nita, Bris (my Dad), and the arrival of baby brother Joe and little sister Vivi. It was a great read.
We are quick to bad mouth each other, even those we love, but seldom will we take the time to share a good memory. We need to fix that. I often question my resolve to write and I always decide to continue regardless of the fact that very few read my words.
Take time to write a story. We often remember things from our past and that thought might linger for a moment then is swept away by other thoughts of less importance or the ringing of the evil and ever-present cell phone. Rather than let these memories dissolve in the mist of thought, write them down. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar. Spelling and grammar take a back seat to the actual memory.
Perhaps someday Ken’s great-grandson will do a documentary and he will need those words. We’ll let him edit for spelling and proper grammar.
Ask anyone what their objective of life is and the number of different responses will equal the number of people you ask. Regardless of your objective, is it attainable? Who sets the mark for your goal and, when set, how difficult is it to attain? If you set an easy goal then it will be easy to attain. If you set a goal that is impossible to attain then the chances of reaching it are problematic.
If you set an easy goal, and it is easily reached, what then? Do you set another easy goal? If you reach your easy goal do you consider your life well spent? Do you become complacent with your accomplishments and relive the day over and over in your mind—feeding on past accomplishments?
If your goal is easy, but blocked by an unexpected obstacle do you set it aside—perhaps move your “meter” back to claim a false win or do you push on?
Easy goals are easy—impossible goals are not easy and can feed a desire to continually strive for the impossible; if you are so minded. Many of us will never change the world, but a few, that few who strive for the impossible, will sometimes change the world. At the very least you will change your little piece of it.
Never take the easy route—take the right route; which is always harder. The only reward for an easy accomplishment is that it was easy. On the hard road you will see and do things most cannot comprehend. Plus, if you stay focused you will see that the impossible is not that impossible after all; it’s only difficult.
Tomorrow (February 27th) I turn 60 years old. I’m told that is a milestone. A milestone tells you where you are in relation to where you want to be or where you have come from. At the age of 20 (just prior to another milestone, which I’m told is age 21) I had already spent 3 years in the military and had no clue what I would do with my life. I never expected, based on how my life was at the time, to reach the next milestone—that being the age of 30.
Obviously I reach the 30 year mark and must say the span of the 30 years between then and now went way too fast. Given the facts I know now I would have to admit I have wasted much of my 60 years on things that were important at the time, but now mean little if anything. It’s a shame we are not born with wisdom.
A few days ago I was at a restaurant and learned our waitress had just turned 18 years old. I complemented her (and envied her) that her adventure was just beginning. Her response was, “yea, that’s what I’ve been told” and her tone led me to believe her attitude toward my comment was dubious at best. I thought of trying to enlighten her with the wisdom I had learned that life as a high school teenager is no comparison to what life will be and what your life will be is based on what you do and how you go about doing it—truly her adventure is just beginning. I decided to keep quiet as I recall as a teenager other super old people telling me the same thing and it did nothing but irritate me—how could they possibly know anything about it. I’m not so sure wisdom can be shared. You can try and share it and perhaps some take root, but I think it depends on the recipient. The vast majority of acquired wisdom comes from experience. What’s that old saying” “Good judgment comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgment” or something like that.
Mistakes, regrets, errors and missed opportunities plague my past. All these infractions are what gives us wisdom—so long as we realize our mistake and learn from them so that the next time the opportunity presents itself you do not add to your list of regrets.
Tomorrow I turn 60. Not sure what that means because it is not like there is a significant change in who I am. However, if, on the day I turn 60 I am able to adequately apply some of the wisdom I have gained over the past 59 years then it will be a good day.
I’ve gained all this wisdom, but too tired to use it.
Not sure I can isolate my first memory of my grandparents. I can say all the memories I have of them bring a warmth to my heart that can only be described as… well, I’m not sure there is a word that can describe it. Any bad memory I have, that is associated with my grandparents, stem from my own actions; certainly not theirs. I am ashamed to admit I lost the opportunity to create memories with them on a regular basis. As I got older (by “older” I refer to the expanse of my teen years) I thought time spent with them was a waste and better spent doing childish things. It did not become clear to me how wrong I was until much later and sadly after they had left this life. There was so very much I could have learned from them had I been mature enough to realize what stood before me.
My Grandparents – Lilly & Dale Butt
As a child my Mother would take us to visit her parents on a regular basis—often times spending the whole weekend with them. Also, during the summer, each of us would stay a week alone with them. During all of those visits I do not remember my grandparents saying anything bad about anyone. My grandmother’s favorite saying (or at least I believe it was her favorite) was, “If you can’t say anything good about someone then don’t say anything at all.” I can remember only one time when my grandmother was angry with me and she had every right to be angry—maybe more on that. Or maybe not as I am still ashamed of what I did.
My grandparents were in constant motion. My grandmother had a small garden in the front yard and if she was not in the kitchen canning fruit or in the living room sewing she was in that garden. My grandfather was the same way. I do not recall how many acres he had, but he worked them all daily and did so with an old tractor. He had cows to milk and pigs to tend to and more chickens than one child could count—I tried a number of times but could never get them to line up properly.
I recall a batch of piglets my grandma had and assume they were a litter from one of the sows in the large pig pen behind the house. I do not recall how many there were but do recall at night they would wake me up as their tiny feet pattered across the wood floor to get closer to the heat stove in the living room—yes, she kept them in the house due to the harsh winter cold of the midwest.
This wood stove heated the majority of the house.
On one particular morning I walked from the living room toward the kitchen and saw grandma carrying one of the piglets out and it was obvious to me the pig had died during the night. I asked her, “Is it dead?” She nodded her head and said “yes.” I recall feeling bad for the little pig but do not recall it making me feel so bad that I cried—not sure how old I was, but I was quite young. The cold hard facts did not become clear to me until much later in life as I recalled that incident. The death of that little pig probably equated to a month’s worth of income. Certainly had that pig lived then life that year would have been at least a bit better. Life on that farm was hard I’m sure.
I think my grandfather tolerated me as I followed him around the farm—watching and wanting to help. I’m sure I was more trouble than I was worth. I recall helping him replace a corner post on the fence that surrounded my grandmother’s garden. I don’t recall who, but someone backed into it then sped off. Actually, I think I do remember, I just don’t want to throw anyone under the bus. I helped him set it up straight and recall pounding in the nails to get the pig fence back in an acceptably secure position. That memory stuck with me for a long time. All the while thinking I had been a big help that day. Many years later, perhaps in the late ‘90s I was driving down Route 121 between Sullivan and Bethany and decided to stop by the old property. Of course the house, shed and barns were long since gone. I walked around a bit and reminisced and envisioned where the shed was, how the house was angled on the property and where the barns were. I tried to find the fresh water spring that seeped from the side of the hill that was a perpetual supply of fresh water for the horse trough—but I never found it. I also plotted where grandma’s garden had been. It was then I spied the remnants of a broken down old pig fence and there, in the corner of that remembered piece of ground, was a post laying on its side. I walked over and picked it up and saw an assortment of old nails half pounded in and all crooked—so much for being a great help that day. With my mind’s eye I envisioned the look on my grandfather’s face as I pounded those nails in. I’m sure he was amused and in fact I was amused with what my mind conjured up as the expression on his face. I dislodged the post from the rusted remnants of the pig fence and threw it in the trunk of my car. That post still holds a prominent space at my house. As a continued to walk around the property I found an old rusted horse shoe—which resides today with that post.
I recall waking up early one morning and seeing my grandfather sitting in his chair—but will hold onto that memory for a bit. Perhaps I will divulge that memory later, but more likely than not if you want to hear this particular memory you’ll have to read my book, “Solitary—Without the Confinement.” I also recall the 6:00am train that woke us up almost every morning with the smell of coal. Even today when I smell coal burning I feel a sense of security and safe haven; as if nothing can harm me.
When privileged enough to spend the week with them during the summer I recall going with my grandmother to the market. Someone would come by and pick us up because grandma didn’t drive. We would hit the grocery store then the meat market and maybe one or two other shops—this was before the days of the Super-Wal-Mart. I knew, before we headed home, we would stop and she would buy me an ice-cream cone. Again, it did not dawn on me until much later that she could not afford to buy me an ice-cream cone, but she did anyway.
I recall two oval pictures hanging in the living room and I believe they were of my grandfather’s parents. I often wonder what happened to those pictures. I do have a picture that I believe is a portrait of either my grandmother’s parents or perhaps my grandfather’s; not sure which. Who we are, at least in part, is molded by those who pass before us. By their actions my grandparents tried to show me the right way to live my life. I thank them for that and one of my regrets is I did not thank them in person when I had the chance.
My grandfather with my oldest sister and not sure who the other baby is.
The more I think on this the more recollections break free of my obscured memory. Memories of my grandparents filter through my mind like a mist. Some memories are very clear and others are faint and hard to discern. I suspect some memories are patched together based on multiple memories mixed together. My grandparent’s farm was a perfect example of a menagerie and included pigs, horses, cows, dogs, cats, chickens and pretty much any other animal that might be associated with a farm.
As children we would go to the pasture and stand on the end of the wagon and wait. After a bit ol’ Red would wonder by and stop at the end of the wagon and let one of us climb on. Red would walk around the pasture once or twice then return to the corner of the wagon to let the next child ride. Red would continue to do this as long as there was a kid waiting on the corner of the wagon.
Anyone who knew my Grandparents knew who Ol’ Red was.
I recall a particularly rainy Saturday afternoon when grandpa led one of his ponies into the enclosed front entry of the house. Of course we kids were ecstatic about having a horse in the house but grandma was not amused. Exasperated or not grandma allowed it because it brought such joy to the grandkids. Grandma may have given grandpa an ear full after we left but I really doubt that happened. I think grandpa enjoyed the fact that he excited the grandkids and I suspect grandma felt the same way.
I tihnk there was a side to my Grandpa I was too young to understand. He apparently enjoyed the little things of life as seen by this picture when grandpa put a dog in the saddle.
As a very small child I was climbing around on an old rusted combine in the pasture. I suspect in my mind I was scaling a large mountain trying to reach the cold rigid peak. Being so enthralled with my adventure I did not see the multitude of cows who decided to congregate around the base of the combine. As a small child I was rather frightened of cows—I saw them as mean animals. Sometime prior to this I saw one of the cows in the barn step back and squash the head of a small feral cat … that head was squashed as flat as a penny. The cow could not have cared less about that poor little cat or the artistic design of a flattened kitty-cat head. If a cow could squash the head of a cat then go about eating as if nothing was wrong it made perfect sense to me that a cow would take great pleasure in squashing my little head. Long story short—I was afraid to come down from the combine. I’m not real sure, but I think I may have conjured up enough courage to pee on one of them from my secure position—I might have made that part up but my memory tells me it happened. I do not recall the exact amount of time but memory tells me I spent three or four days up on that combine waiting for those cows to leave. Perhaps my memory is not all that clear about this particular bit of the story—might have been up there for an hour or so before grandpa saw my predicament and climbed the great mountain to rescue me.
Pigs and chickens were a different story. We would chase the chickens and try to ride the pigs—emphasis on try. We would stand on the fence and wait for a pig to venture into our trap and once they were close enough we would jump off the fence, pounce onto the back of the unfortunate pig, and ride it for as long as we could. I do not think we ever reached the rumored eight second requirement prevalent in rodeos, but we tried many, many times. Grandpa would stand by the fence, gesture with his hand and shout, “you darn fool kids are gonna break your neck” but laugh out loud and pound on the fence as he watched the mayhem.
I recall grandpa hitching up the wagon to the horse and allow us to lead the horse around just like those cowboys on TV. I do not believe we ever got the talent of leading a horse to any level of efficiency. In fact I recall my youngest brother Tim being flipped out the right side of the wagon as the wagon wheel hit a large tractor tire at the edge of the lane. Not sure which one of us got a spanking over that one but I suspect someone did and it would be anyone’s guess if the recipient of the administered punishment was actually the one steering the wagon. I guess, if the truth were told, we all got a quick swat after which we all scurried off to enter into other forms of mischief.
My grandpa’s skill at ringing the neck of a chicken was legendary in the region. He would reach down, snatch up a chicken, and in less than two shakes of his hand the chicken was dancing headless on the ground—that chicken didn’t see it coming. On the flip side of that story we see me chasing a chicken for what seemed like hours and once I had one in my grip I would shake that poor chicken by the head like a mad man putting out a fire. The chicken would always get away and run off never knowing what it had done to deserve such treatment. I’m sure my attempts at imitating Colonel Sanders were an amusement to both grandma and grandpa.
My grandma or my mom would take the headless body of the chicken—the product of my grandfather’s execution—and dip it into boiling water. It was the job of any adolesent in the area to pluck all the feathers and get the convicted chicken ready for dismemberment. Execute a defenseless chicken, watch it dance headless until all the blood spurted out, dunk it in scalding water, pluck the poor thing of its feathers, hack and dismember it into pieces and … well, what better way to get ready for a nice Sunday afternoon family dinner.
A little ways down the road was a creek that winded its way east and west through their farm. I’m sure it has a name but it eludes me. It had on old rickety bridge that announced anyone approaching from the north. I would go there to skip stones and try my hand at cane pole fishing—I don’t think I ever caught anything. Back then a child could wander around the country side and not have to worry about that car approaching. The occupants of the car were likely gracious and wonderful people just like my grandparents.
On farther down the road and west a mile or so was an old cemetery—Mitchell Cemetery I think it was called. I found wonder in looking at the old stones and trying to make out the dates. Many of the stones marked the passing of people over a hundred years prior. I wondered who they were at the time but lacking the ability at that young age I did not ponder who they were. All those people buried there were sons, daughters, parents and probably grandparents as well. Perhaps in a hundred years or so some child will stumble across the Oak Grove Cemetery and wonder who those two were with the stone depicting a white and black horse pulling a plow. I’m here to tell you they were wonderful people who toiled through life to sustain their family. They suffered loss and basked in the joy of God’s grace. They felt the pride as well as the sorrow of sending a son to fight a war in Europe and thanked God for his return—a war hero in the eyes of many. Who raised their children during the depression of the ‘30s and lived the life of a grandparent—a grandparent any grandchild would be honored to love.
My Mom as a young girl stand in the center of her Brothers
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty: Master Sergeant Woodrow W. Keeble distinguished himself by acts of gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty in action with an armed enemy near Sangsan-ni, Korea, on October 20, 1951. On that day, Master Sergeant Keeble was an acting platoon leader for the support platoon in Company G, 19th Infantry, in the attack on Hill 765, a steep and rugged position that was well defended by the enemy. Leading the support platoon, Master Sergeant Keeble saw that the attacking elements had become pinned down on the slope by heavy enemy fire from three well-fortified and strategically placed enemy positions. With complete disregard for his personal safety, Master Sergeant Keeble dashed forward and joined the pinned-down platoon. Then, hugging the ground, Master Sergeant Keeble crawled forward alone until he was in close proximity to one of the hostile machine-gun emplacements. Ignoring the heavy fire that the crew trained on him, Master Sergeant Keeble activated a grenade and threw it with great accuracy, successfully destroying the position. Continuing his one-man assault, he moved to the second enemy position and destroyed it with another grenade. Despite the fact that the enemy troops were now directing their firepower against him and unleashing a shower of grenades in a frantic attempt to stop his advance, he moved forward against the third hostile emplacement, and skillfully neutralized the remaining enemy position. As his comrades moved forward to join him, Master Sergeant Keeble continued to direct accurate fire against nearby trenches, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy. Inspired by his courage, Company G successfully moved forward and seized its important objective. The extraordinary courage, selfless service, and devotion to duty displayed that day by Master Sergeant Keeble was an inspiration to all around him and reflected great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.
That is how the Medal of Honor Citation read for Woodrow W. Keeble that was presented to his family 26 years after MSG Keeble’s death. During his service during WWII and the Korean War MSG Keeble was awarded two Silver Stars, four purple Hearts and two Bronze Stars (with “V” Device).
There is much that can be written about this man—his honor, his integrity and his selfless service. I think it can all be summed up by three things he said after returning home:
“Before I experienced the horror of that attack, I was quick to call coward or yellow anyone who showed fear under any circumstances. Nevermore. I don’t know these things, but they speak truth to one. I am not a psychologist, nor a statistician, and less of a philosopher; but the depth of emotion, the dreads of fear, the referees of horrors, and the concentration of self that led me to make this observation, the fear impulse, or perhaps, better said, the (impulses caused) by fear, are stronger, more demanding than either that of love or hunger…”
“Fear in my opinion is a state of drunkenness. And when men are in that state when the fear impulse takes a hold…he loses all reason, sense of values, and is not liable, or at least should not be held accountable for acts perpetrated when thus possessed.”
The aftermath of combat operations on Guadalcanal
“During the 13 months (in the) almost continual and sustained combat in which I have ever participated, there were moments, and rare ones, I am sure; but they lose none of their terror or horror for which fear laid a relentless and a powerful hold on me, that the pull of cowardice was almost more than I could ward off. There were terrible moments that encompassed a lifetime, an endlessness, when terror was so strong in me, that I could feel idiocy replace reason. (Yet,) I have never left my position, nor have I shirked hazardous duty. Fear did not make a coward out of me.”
Keeble returned to North Dakota after the Korean War and worked at the Wahpeton Indian School (later named Circle of Nations Wahpeton Indian School) located in Wahpeton, ND. Soon after, he was afflicted with tuberculosis, which required that he undergo long-term treatment in Minnesota. Surgeons ultimately removed one of his lungs, which triggered a series of strokes that rendered him speechless, partially paralyzed and unable to work for the remainder of his life.
Keeble fell on hard times and is said to have pawned his service medals. Nevertheless, and despite his disabilities, Keeble persevered. Those that knew him and members of his family proclaim he never lost the level of integrity, honor and selfless service that sustained him during vicious combat operations in WWII and Korea.
The Medal of Honor, well deserved on the day of the incident, was not given until 26 years after his death. Since then there have been many other honors bestowed on MSG Keeble—but not near enough. What can we, as individuals, do to honor his life—and for that matter—the lives of every other honorable person we know? The answer is easy. Imitate them. Live your life firmly grounded in honor, integrity, compassion and wisdom.
Woodrow W. Keeble died January 28th, 1982 and is buried in Sisseton, South Dakota. This short blog is but a small portion outlining the life led by MSG Keeble. His accomplishments and his demons are many.
Ask any youth who their role model is and more often than not they will name a prominent sports figure. I’ll not delve into the world of steroids or doping or cheating. We can name hundreds of sports figures who were caught and convicted of these and other crimes. Sadly, even after the conviction many still hold these people in high regard-not sure why.
The question is why are even the honest sports figures claimed as a role model? They do not play this sport because of personal convictions nor do they participate to empower others. They do it for the money.
Let’s make a comparison to prove a point. For the past many years the media has focused on the 0.1 percent of police officers who do not “serve and protect.” They will even go so far as to generate a media lynching of police officers who are given no choice but to initiate lethal force in a confrontation. Seldom will you hear of a police officer held up as a role model. But I submit they are the perfect example. I will also submit, unless you have looked at death in the face, you have no business crucifying a police officer who was forced to make a split-second decision. Granted, there are times when, using hind-sight, lethal force was not required. However, there are more cases where a police officer, or innocent by-stander, lost their life because lethal force was not used. If a perpetrator places themselves, by their own actions, into a position where there is a potential for lethal force then they are the ones who must lay claim to the results. As a needed side comment, a gun in the hands of a bad-guy is not needed to constitute a need for deadly force.
A police officers do not patrol the streets or rush toward danger for the money. They do it because they have an inner desire to serve the public. When shots are fired everyone will run the other direction; everyone except a police officer. They will run towards the shooter and put their lives on the line to calm the hostilities. If lethal force is required to calm the hostilities then they have done their duty.
Would a prominent football player run a ball to the goal if there were even the slightest possibility they might get shot? Of course they wouldn’t. Why would they? Getting the ball to the goal is not a life or death situation. A police officer putting themselves in harm’s way is a life or death situation. You can replace the word police officer with solider, fireman, and these days you can add teacher to the list.
The police officer, the soldier, the fireman, and yes the teacher do their jobs not because of the money, but rather because of who they are.
So, I ask you again. Why are sports figures held up as role models while these others are not?
