Pope John
Paul II was at the time, and continues to be thought of as the most personable,
widely-traveled Papal See in the history of the office; in spite of the
lingering impact of an assassination attempt, and the advent of Parkinson’s
Disease.
As you might
expect, this aging Pope’s aides were concerned for his declining health, and,
at one time or another, each and every one of his personal assistants would
say,
“Holy Father.
You do too much!”
After having
heard this phrase one too man times, John Paul admonished the unlucky guy who
happened to be the last to use the phrase.
Fastening
his eyes on the young aide, he exclaimed,
“Some
things…have to be done too much!”
Dear
readers, some things have to be done too much, and some things need to be done,
and done well one time.
The year was 2008, and my cousin Kimberly, and I worked
together to plan, organize and conduct a gravemarking ceremony for our ancient
immigrant grandfather, Isham McDonald; who fought in the American Revolution
and ultimately settled in South Georgia.
After many months of preparation, (including the manufacture
and placement of a beautiful VA marble headstone) it all finally came together.
About 200 family members and friends met at Cat Creek Cemetery, along with
representatives of “The Sons of the American Revolution,” adorned in uniforms
of that period, bagpipers fitted out in their formal kilts, and a bugler lent
by the local boy scouts.
Pt. 2
In honor of my immigrant grandfather, and as an Army retiree,
I wore my dress blue uniform, and had prepared a speech for the solemn
occasion.
Though it was a momentous occasion, indeed, a laugh always
escapes me when I watch the “re-runs” on video. For when my time to speak
arrives, the elderly Georgia S.A.R. chairperson steps to the microphone and
says,
“And now Private McDonald’s great great great grandson,
Staff Sergeant McDonald, is coming to share a brief, brief message.”
At that time, (and each and every time I watch the film) I
recall thinking,
“Are you kidding me? ‘brief, brief?’ Ummm, not, not.
After all the work that went into this production? Not to
mention the love which I and my family members, who are assembled here, have
for our dear ancestor, and the respect which is due him. Uh, no way, Jose!”
And you might guess that I proceeded to be anything but
“brief, brief” with my comments relating to my dear ancestor.
Oh, how much we owe to those who went through the blood and
suffering of the Revolution,
… and how exceptionally proud I am of my ancient immigrant
grandfather.
Pt. 3
I recall another time when what had to be done, well, had to
be done.
My wife’s nephew had passed away a week earlier, and the
funeral having been accomplished earlier that day, Jean and her sister were on
their way to Fay’s house to deliver what was left of the memorial cake to her.
In the meantime, as I happened to be watching a movie on television,
the phone rang. An unknown male voice informed me that my wife had been in an
automobile accident, and that I should immediately come to the scene; (which I
proceeded to do).
As I arrived at a location with which I was very familiar, (since
the two car crash had occurred in my hometown) I realized the results of the accident
were worse than I might have imagined.
I noticed a non-descript late model white car facing east,
and in the middle of the two lane street. However, my sister-in-law’s van was
turned on its side, and facing south. A large jagged hole had been cut into the
roof to free its two occupants; Jean and Shirlene. All sorts of small miscellaneous
items, such as a cell phone, and what remained of the cake, were scattered
along the street.
However, it was not the offending vehicle, nor my in-law’s
van which deserved my immediate attention. I pulled up directly behind the only
ambulance which I recall having seen that day.
And as I drew closer, I noticed my wife lying prostrate on a
gurney in the back. Though by this time the damaged limb was wrapped in
bandages, the presence of blood indicated Jean had sustained either road rash
or a nasty wound.
I pulled my trusty Nissan Altima to a halt about ten feet
behind the ambulance, turned off the ignition, stepped from the vehicle, greeted
my wife, and climbed aboard the conveyance.
With this, the attendant looked at me like I was a two-headed
giraffe, and raising his voice several decibels proclaimed,
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re not allowed in the ambulance!”
At that moment the first responder might as well have said,
“I’m sorry, sir. You aren’t allowed to breathe!”
I can tell you I sat next to, and comforted my wife as long
as I jolly well pleased that day, and only when I heard the driver crank up the
engine did I finally make my way out of the vehicle, returned to my automobile,
and summarily followed the ambulance to the E.R.
Some things must be done too much, and some things must be
done at least once.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 78. Copyright pending
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