Nick's Place: Where coffee is served there is grace and splendor and friendship and happiness. -- Sheik Aba-al-Kaadir, 16th Century

12/09/2008

For My Son, Nicholas John Molinaro

I recently “hooked-up” with my son via Facebook, where we are officially friends. We’ve had some humorous exchanges, and I’m really enjoying the back and forth teasing. His profile contains a photo of him mugging for the camera with a very pretty girl next to him who has a beautiful olive complexion, it seems to me. At least in the photo it appears that way.

I pursued an old inside family joke by inquiring about the girl’s heritage to ensure that he would be serious only about an Italian girl, as though that really matters to any of us. But it is something I have used to tease all my children. The girl, I’ll call her SL, thought that was cute and commented back asking my son if she really looks Italian. I commented back trying to explain the joke. It occurred to me that I could expand my brief explanation.

All this put me in mind of the way my father used to tease me about just such a thing when I was a teenager, usually at the big Sunday dinners my mother prepared for the family. First, a word about those dinners and my mother: I’m headed this way partly because of this recent exchange with my son and partly because of a story that my friend, Joe Pignatello, published about his family experience growing up in an Italian family and neighborhood in New Jersey. I re-published Joe’s story at my Web site. We had somewhat similar experiences. We understand each other well.

Okay, my mother:  Oh my, what a cook.

The Sunday dinners usually included as guests my sister, brother-in-law, and niece, who drove over from a neighboring town. My brother and his wife; their daughter had not been born yet. And then there was me, the baby of the family, spoiled baby as my siblings would remind you. Mother would have spent a couple of hours shopping for just the right pork, beef, chicken, sausage, tomato sauce and paste, pasta, and other ingredients a day or two before the dinner. I would have driven her because she never drove a car.

She would get up early and start the preparation. She would inspect, trim, clean, and otherwise prepare the ingredients meticulously. I think she relished this part of it. The sauce (call it gravy, if you like; we called it sauce, meaning Mother’s sauce and no other, for there was no other to us) would start sometimes around 10 a.m., sometimes later, for the late afternoon meal.

A few houses near us would know that Babe (Bambina, her name) had started her sauce again. To us, all was right in the world when our brains picked up that olfactory signal. Mother was barely five feet tall and very petite. But somehow she would lift very large pots full of sauce and the meats that had been braising inside and transfer the contents with ease and dexterity into their platters. And she wanted no one in her way when she was doing it. She would carry nearly over-flowing platters in her small hands to the table from her small kitchen (and, again, do not get in her way). Absolutely everything would arrive at precisely the same time at optimal temperature with steam wafting from every dish. I’ve been cooking at home for years, and I still don’t know how she did that.

I am recounting this with exactitude, dear reader. There is no exaggeration here, no embellishment from a loving offspring remembering his mama. I’m telling you it was perfect; it was wondrous. Occasionally, I would invite a friend from school. Such invitations became coveted. My fortunate friends, none of whom had ever encountered such a meal, would recount the experience at school, furthering my mother’s renown. Mothers of friends would seek out my mother’s advice and ask for recipes, as though recipes for my mother’s food existed.

My father worked shift-work at the Standard Oil refinery in my hometown, and he never had weekends off, so my mother timed the start of these meals to occur before he went to work or after he came home from work or before he slept in the early evening prior to his midnight shift. He would usually be most at peace and at ease and in his best frame of mind at these gatherings. All his babies were nearby and my mother was cooking. That’s all he needed.

Let’s take a moment here for the lump in my throat to subside. It’s time for an espresso, anyway. I find that the hot liquid helps ease the constriction; and espresso, well, espresso has its own unique comforting properties.

So, we are at the table approximately at the mid-point of the meal, which as I recall would be about an hour after it started. My father is engrossed in what is before him and seemingly zoned into it. He waits until he thinks my mother is looking his way and takes a few stabs directly inside the salad bowl. He does this because he knows my mother will protest and he can start a round of teasing with her and then take a shot or two at his son-in-law, whom he loved as much as any of us. And so it would start.

Dad looks directly at me. I pretend not to notice him and look down at my plate at a remaining morsel of manicotti or something.

“Hey, you. The little one over there, I’m talking to you,” he says feigning gruffness. I have to look up; it’s expected.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 16, Pop.”

“Um . . .” He returns to the supposed object of his attention, and after a few seconds:

“You married, yet?” he demands.

“No, Pop, not yet,” giving the response everyone expects.

“Humph, not married.” He looks at Mom incredulously and nods his head upward, shrugs his shoulders as though to say “What’s up with that? Why is he not married?” Mom gives a slight shrug as if to say, “Don’t ask me,” and focuses on her plate. I’m on my own.

He shakes his head a bit and returns to the salad bowl for the few remaining avocado tidbits swimming in the oil and vinegar. Mom pretends to be outraged. After a few seconds, he lifts his head, leans over to Mom as though he were going to say something intimate, nudges her arm with his hand and says, for all to hear:

“Moglie, call Uncle Dominic and tell him to hurry up and find that nice, plump, Italian, Catholic girl from the mountains of Calabria for our ‘Chinky’ (that appellation is another story). It’s time for this boy to get started making my grandchildren.” Then, he turns back to me and feigns a menacing look while pointing with his fork dripping a bit of sauce or dressing:

“I want six fat, little babies from you and you better hurry up about it.”

“I’ll get right on that, Pop.”

Dad is obviously pleased with himself, and even my adorable little niece, who is about five or six, smiles at the joke. We are all pleased. That little bit of teasing is a comforting, loving moment. Now, I get to share it with my son, who is well beyond 16 and not yet married.

Six fat, little babies. And you’d better hurry up about it. 

I heard a few stories about my maternal grandfather, Francesco Basta, born in the latter part of the 19^th Century a couple of decades after Garibaldi and Mazzini fought to unite Italy during the Risorgimento.

It seems that he might have been a rather cantankerous, tough old man. It seems he liked to test people; perhaps, push them a bit to find their weak points. When he lived here in the States, he was some kind of labor gang supervisor, I think on a railroad. At times the family was split between Italy and the U.S., with Francesco Basta and some of the children Stateside, while his wife, Maria (Manfredi) Basta, stayed behind with the babies in Calabria to maintain the home there.

During these separations, Maria Basta subsisted on what her husband could send home and on what she could grow and raise on their small plot of land in the hills near Cosenza. At various times the family re-united either in the United States or in Italy for varying periods.

Mostly, Francesco Basta maintained three of his older offspring here in the States: a girl, Babe, the eldest, followed sequentially in age by Jim and Angelina. Maria Basta had charge of Franco, Jr. and Luigi, the babies, and spent more time in Italy. Somehow, they journeyed across the Atlantic for reunions that lasted a couple of months when they could. This went on for some years until, finally, Fracesco Basta returned to Italy for good to live out his years.

Francesco Basta settled his family for a time in Caldwell, Jew Jersey. There, he continued some of the customs of agrarian, southern Italy, like growing much of his own food and making some of his own wine in the basement, an illegal activity in the U.S. at the time. Francesco Basta’s wine making operation was small but, of course, he produced more than he could consume. Friends and neighbors benefitted from this over-production, for a small price.

Part of the process of wine making involved cleaning out the oak wine barrels after the bottling was complete. At the bottom of the barrels were the remaining dregs: bits of fermented grape, plenty of yeast and sugar mixed in a residual juice that was not suitable for further wine making. 

Someone had to scrape out these dregs and juice and retain them for the distillation of grappa, a strong, clear liquor that would significantly warm the tongue and eventually every bit of the alimentary canal when consumed from a shot glass. That someone then had to clean and rinse the walls of the barrel in preparation for the next grape crushing. Italians from the south wasted nothing and understood the benefit of processing anything of potential value, especially if it added to the gastronomical pleasures of life and the more so if the excess supply could also command a reasonable price. Existing ordinances proscibing such activity, whether local or federal, were simply minor considerations that one could deal with creatively through some gesture of generosity, or one would simply ignore them, if possible.

This dreg scraping and barrel cleaning fell to the children and teenagers. One had to nearly crawl into the barrel halfway and work inside the barrel mostly by feel, since very little light entered. This necessitated spending prolonged periods breathing the fumes of recently fermented grape juice.

Most Italian-American girls at the time wore their hair long, capitalizing on its natural attractiveness. To keep the hair out of the residual grape juice and dregs, they would tie it up in one big knot on top of their heads. However, after a couple of hours thus employed, a portion or even all of the hair would slip its knot and connect partially with the remaining contents of the barrel, thereby coloring the hair a dark purple for a few days, so too any exposed flesh and any fabric covering the upper torso.

My mother and her sister were employed at this labor one day when a donkey-drawn wagon carrying two men and a concealed load of distilled spirits approached the Basta house and came upon the site of the posterior ends of two girls whose upper torsos were inside wine barrels. The movement of the visible ends of the girls would have clearly indicated that vigorous work was going on inside the barrels.

One can imagine that such a sight would attract some attention, perhaps even distract a passerby from whatever delivery mission was under weigh. In this case, the routine delivery was that of a small quantity of prohibited alcohol, which Francesco Basta employed to ward off the cold, contain ailments, and enliven the gatherings of his companions. Any excess supply was illegally available for friends, again for a small price.

I understand the donkey was drawn up to a complete stop by the wagon master who suddenly needed to affirm that this house, which he had visited many times before, was indeed that of Francesco Basta. Well, he had made several deliveries that day and, you know, he thought it only prudent to make sure. Therefore, Domenico Provenzano, my paternal great uncle, pulled up the wagon on which he and my father, Sam Molinaro, rode. Domenico made sure to position the wagon most advantageously to make such an inquiry, and which, coincidentally, afforded the best view of the energy transmission from arms and shoulders to the girls' posteriors.

Not wanting to rush or startle the two barrel cleaners and perhaps interrupt their labor, he considerately did not call out or in any way make his presence known. Zio Domenico prided himself on his unfailing courtesy and consideration in all situations involving work, though the activity of hard work itself he did not value highly. He waited some considerable time in the wagon seat patiently observing the scene and making sure that his nephew, visiting for the first time from the West Coast, had a clear line of sight. One of the girls, my mother Babe, finally extracted her head from the barrel to breathe and clear her lungs and perhaps her head from the effects of the fumes therein.

According to my mother’s account, she looked up and saw an older man and a very handsome, young man beside him looking down on her from the wagon seat. She described her shock and embarrassment at the discovery that two men were thus observing her. She considered how she must have looked at that moment with upper torso and face spotted purple and bits of grape stems intertwined with purple, uncombed, dripping hair.

That beginning of the inevitable courtship of Sam Molinaro and Babe Basta preceded their marriage by about three months. I understand that there was no doubt in Sam Molinaro’s mind that he wanted to marry this girl as soon as he saw her. I’m less clear about my mother’s immediate inclination, other than she wanted to hide. However, it appears that the young lady constructed no insurmountable barriers to the courtship. She told me that she had only one major, life-altering demand of my father: he would have to agree to never, ever, ever step into the prize-fighting ring again.

Sam Molinaro, age about 19, had been earning a few supplemental dollars here and there entertaining men in various clubs by participating in “amateur” prizefights for which he would receive his small, under-the-table compensation. From what I heard from his brothers, he was rather good and had some potential to advance to a more serious level of the pugilistic arts as a lightweight.

However, that quest derailed one day during the courtship when he came a ‘calling for Babe Basta and could not conceal some severe contusions, lacerations, and swelling from a recently concluded, difficult bout. Babe Basta was not going to accept a man into her life who engaged in a “sport” where such outcomes were possible. She was simply not available for such a man, and no union would be possible without an immediate cessation of that activity, which she considered bestial at best.

The account I heard is that during the delivery of this condition, my father carefully considered all options, and after a pause of about seven and one-half-seconds, acquiesed to the condition. He would have agreed sooner, he told me, but he wanted to take whatever time necessary to give it the careful consideration it deserved.  He claimed that he also wanted to let her know that he was not one to accede to a woman’s life-altering conditions unless it was clearly something that he wanted to do anyway. Evidently, seven and one-half seconds was sufficient to establish this rock solid standard.

The courtship period, though brief, afforded everyone the opportunity to test the sincerity and worth of all parties. Francesco Basta was going to take the full measure of this young fellow and determine what, if any, weaknesses would reveal themselves.

Look at that Son-of-a-bitch Drink

Sam Molinaro was young, an athlete, and a very moderate consumer of wine only during the evening meal. Francesco Basta, his future father-in-law, was more disposed toward the enjoyment of wine and strong distilled spirits within a more flexible schedule and with some frequency. As my brother told it to me, having heard it from some uncles, Francesco Basta would cajole his future son-in-law into joining him at the table where he would break out a bottle of grappa for a round of shots, which only he would pour, as appropriate. It became clear that in inviting the young man to table, the old man was expecting a positive response to the invitation and enthusiastic participation.

Taking a solid shot of grappa, the older man would slam down his shot glass, and express his satisfaction mightily, then look expectantly at the young fellow across from him. Sam Molinaro well understood the expectation of participation and mimicked the action of his elder as best he could, but with an added shake of the head and a large, nearly desperate intake of breath.

“Look at that son-of-a bitch drink,” Francesco Basta loudly proclaimed with pleasure, pounding his hand upon the table. “Now, there’s a man.”

Laughing heartily, he immediately poured another round for them both. Had this been a contest, it would have been no contest. There was not a man in all of Caldwell who would consider an attempt to best Francesco Basta in a grappa consumption challenge.

Sam Molinaro knew what was before him, knew its inevitable consequence, and knew there would be abject failure in the courtship if he did not acquit himself with honor. Neither he, nor Francesco Basta expected him to go the distance here; this was not a prizefight. He only had to acquit himself manfully.

Sam Molinaro was on turf rightfully claimed and defended by his better. That was clear, and there was no chance of dethroning this champion. Clearly, what counted here was only the effort. He intended to earn Francesco Basta’s respect and the hand of Babe Basta. He was in the hunt, and the prospect of the effects of grappa shots would not hinder him in his pursuit. I understand he rose to the challenge and paid a heavy price later.

The Incident at the Market Square

“Salvatore, vieni. Andiamo al piazza di mercato,” Francesco Basta said one day late in the morning, later than anyone from the Basta family would normally go to the market square. Curious and apprehensive about this command, for so it was, Sam Molinaro, rose from his seat across from Babe Basta on the porch, smiled at her and followed Francesco Basta down the steps of the porch.  He wondered what was in store for him now. How would this old brigand challenge him this time? Whatever, he was determined to win this girl and he girded himself for the struggle.

I earlier included the adjectives cantankerous and tough to describe Francesco Basta. All accounts I heard of his character depict a man more than accepting of the potential for confrontation, either physical or verbal. Often, this involved nose-to-nose discourse of an intense nature. There would be posturing, threats, insults, and even an occasional shove or two exchanged between him and his chosen disputant. I did not hear of any real assaults. It seems the action was limited to insults, finger jabbing, tossing of his hat on the ground, spitting on his fingers and on the ground at the feet of his disputant, but not directly on the man’s shoes. Evidently, a protocol for this behavior adhered to strictly would prevent the dispute from real fisticuffs, which could result in serious physical damage. Among the rules:

• Onlookers never interfered. The disputants had to run through their full repertoire of threats and insults with no distraction or intrusion from onlookers, and there had to be onlookers.
•  Insults had to exclude family members, particularly the females.
• Spitting had to be limited as described above. A deviation, such as spitting in the adversary’s face, would be met with a collective, loud intake of breath from the gathered crowd and the expectation of coat and hat removal preceding a real fistfight—a rarity.

Just as spitting in the face guaranteed a real fight, an insult directed at a female family member guaranteed a dangerous fight that might not conclude with finality on the spot. However, at some point, a very bad resolution would likely occur.

Francesco Basta and Sam Molinaro browsed the vegetable stalls where the old man proffered loudly his negative assessment of the suitability of the goods offered for sale at nearly every stall. Sam Molinaro thought the older man particularly truculent and a bit more confrontational than usual on this day. Approaching a stall near the very center of the line of stalls where the crowds were still large, Francesco Basta eyed a purveyor of fruit out of the corner of his eye who stood around 6’ 4” and would have come close to 250 lbs. He began his disparagement of the man’s displayed goods at one end of the table and increased the severity and intensity right to the middle where the large man stood glaring at the source of this abuse.

“Che brute queste. Guardi, Salvatore,” exclaimed Francesco Basta effecting extraordinary displeasure at what looked like perfectly serviceable fruit. Sam Molinaro looked at the fruit vendor, or rather looked up at the fruit vendor and observed the rigid jaw line, the taut neck muscles, and the narrowing eyelids. He began to sense something equivalent to the prospect of an oncoming train directly in his path and no way to side-step it. The large fruit vendor leaned across the table and positioned himself close to Francesco Basta's face to invite that nose-to-nose confrontation for which the growing number of onlookers were hoping.

Sam Molinaro had no options before him. This towering man was inviting a confrontation with the one man on Earth who could make his pursuit of Babe Basta futile and the prize unobtainable. He stepped up to position himself so that the big fella had to know where the fight was going to go, not with the old man but with him, Sam Molinaro, a welter-weight only if he stuffed himself with pasta and cannolli daily for a week. Sam’s move had the intended effect. Now he and the big guy were nose to nose and the exchange was beginning along the established guidelines.

Francesco Basta inserted his arm between the two and then wedged his body between them while facing Sam Molinaro. The large fruit vendor stepped back as protocol required.

“I’m talking here, Kid, and I have more to say to this man,” he said. Sam Molinaro had no choice but to step back, defer to the main disputant and let him carry the moment as required by the rules of engagement. However, he had to give the big guy a look that said, “I'm still here, and don't think for a moment that you and I are done, yet.”

Francesco Basta turned deliberately and purposefully back to the vendor and moved as though to return to nose-to-nose proximity. The vendor complied as expected and moved forward. When optimally positioned, Francesco Basta let fly a mouthful of spit, which he had been building purposefully, directly into the vendor’s face. The collective gasp from the crowd drew others from farther away who moved into position for what was surely to come. Adhering to protocol, the big guy did not immediately throw a punch. He would have been required to clear all obstacles between them, ascertain that his soon to be opponent was properly positioned, alert to what was about to transpire, and fully ready for battle.

There was a problem, however. The vendor had a distinct size advantage, and an older man was confronting him, a man just at the age where a younger, larger man would face disgrace and severe ostracism for hurting him seriously in a fight. Advantage clearly to Francesco Basta, a fact upon which he no doubt counted. Faced with this dilemma, the vendor had to come up with a different response, something other than pummeling the older man.

When the wad of spittle hit Francesco Basta’s face, the now larger crowd gave a collective gasp louder and more forceful than the one that preceded it. Sam Molinaro knew he was witnessing a first in the long practiced art of insult and faux confrontation. There was plowing of new ground here, and he was unsure of what he was expected to do, but knew he could not let Francesco Basta take a certain beating. He stepped forward again, but found Francesco Basta’s arm put before his chest and heard him say, “Espetta. I’m not done here, yet.”

Francesco Basta wiped the spittle from his face and began removing his vest while looking directly into the eyes of the vendor. It was about to start.

“You will regret this to your dying day, young man, which is now not far off, and your mother will wail in mourning for years to come. Get yourself ready for the beating of your life,” Francesco Basta pronounced shifting his weight as though to begin. He then straightened up and still glaring directly at the vendor, but with his right hand motioning Sam Molinaro forward, said, “Salvatore, kick his ass.”

My older brother, from whom I got this account, affirms that Sam Molinaro, outsized as he was, never proclaimed victory in that battle. Nevertheless, he acquitted himself well enough and retained sufficient honor to continue his pursuit of his intended.

Don't Even Think It

When Babe Basta saw Sam Molinaro’s face and torn, bloody clothing upon their return that day, she confronted her father with a torrent of magnificent outrage, standing up to him for the first and only time in her life. His proclamation of innocence got nowhere, for Babe Basta had her limits and she knew Sam Molinaro had not been in a club prize fight, but had been the victim of her father’s plotting. She spared no invective for the sake of propriety or filial duty.

Francesco Basta responded to his daughter with unimagined tolerance, restraint, and forbearance in such circumstance and was nearly contrite. When the full fury of Babe Basta’s storm had run its course, and a lull occured, all parties knew that nothing would prevent the union of these two now. Sam Molinaro had unraveled the Gordian knot, and all that remained were the logistics of an Italian wedding at the expense of Francesco Basta.

Feeling that it was once again safe, Francesco Basta, his hand on Sam Molinaro’s shoulder said, “C’mon, Son, just one grappa for us before dinner, eh My Boy?”

Babe Basta’s intense-don't-you-dare glare at her father inspired a second thought. “Uh, well maybe after dinner, then . . . or, maybe another day. Dinner ready soon, Figlia mia?” he asked cheerfully as he headed for the refuge of the bathroom.

Sam and Babe Molinaro remained married for forty-one years until Sam died at age sixty-one. They had three children, who produced four grandchildren during Sam’s lifetime. Another grandchild came after Sam’s death. Babe remained a widow until her death at age ninety-two.

My mother told me that after the wedding and the tearful departure from Francesco Basta, whom both Sam and Babe truly loved, my father never endured the effects of even one drop of grappa. “Oh no, never,” she said. “Just the word grappa gave him the cramps.”

11/24/2008 1945 hrs.

Step-daughter Erinn brought the baby (Man, she is cute) over for brunch yesterday, and I offered to start a new pot of Coffee. "Sure," Step-daughter says. So, I went through the elaborate preparations required when one employs a machine with a built-in coffee grinder. Oh, how we value freshness here.

I had a few things going on at the time: Being with Granddaughter always occupies more of my conscious thought, grilling the breakfast sausage outside, enjoying the baking smells of the custardy, souffle-like dish (Dutch Babies) that my wife has perfected, lot's of things for an older brain to track in addition to the coffee, y'know?

So, I forgot one little detail: putting the empty coffee pot back under the spigot to receive the freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee. Oops!

I'm outside tending to the sausages and watching Granddaughter pulling weeds diligently in the little flower bed about 10 feet from the grill (did I mention that she is incredibly cute?). I have to watch her carefully: she is not yet two- years old and the flower bed drops off sharply at an incline. I'm having as good a morning as that to which any old man has a right to expect. Step-daughter and Wife join us.

"Um . . . Nick, you forgot to put the coffee pot back into the holder when you started the coffee," Step-daughter informs me.

When a realization of a disaster either pending or just occured hits you, is it like an electric shock, especially so when there can be no doubt that it is all your doing? Do you have to catch your breath when it happens? Does your chest hurt just then?

"I realized it in time and put it in place before it made a mess," she says, perhaps observing that my facial expression at the time reflected the panic that was about to cause an irregular heart beat. Clearly, I needed rescuing, and she had just pulled me back from the precipice.

Within the family, we have joked about my advancing age and the forgetfulness that is manifest now. I join right in and even enjoy the joking observations at my expense.

"This is happening more frequently now," I say with a concerned shake of the head. My tenor is serious, because clearly it is happening more frequently. Through another careless act just a day or two prior to this, I drove the car over my wife's foot. Scared her and me to death and filled my mind with guilt and worry for two days. Fortunately, it does not appear that I caused any serious damage--this time.

"Yes, it is," Wife says resignedly with a similar concerned shake of the head.

Observations, anyone?

11/30/2008 1720 hrs.

Dennis Del Rio performed some difficult duty in a Marine Corps unit in Vietnam. One of the lucky ones, he mustered out at the end of his enlistment with no physical disabilities, having served honorably and voluntarily. During his civilian life, he produced some wonderful offspring: two beautiful daughters and a son. He has also had a successful career in the business world.

In the second week of December, 2008, he will pin the gold bars of a 2nd. Lt. on the uniform of his son, Rudy, in a ceremony at Quantico, VA, where the Marine Corps trains its young officers. I can't think of an adequate way to write about what I believe Dennis and Rudy must be feeling as they approach this event. I have met and known well a few marines. I've never known one who did not have a special, deeply embedded sense of comaraderie for anyone else in the Corps and a love for nearly all things related to the Corps. I have no doubt that Dennis feels that as well. Once a Marine, always a Marine at heart.

A Lifetime Event

Imagine being surrounded by your kindred Marines and pinning those gold bars on your son's uniform. Imagine standing before your Marine unit while your dad pins you with those gold bars. I expect Dennis and Rudy will feel a strong constriction of the throat at that moment and will have to struggle some to maintain their military bearing. They'll manage it with dignity, I have no doubt. Although, I believe even the most hardcore Marines would excuse an errant tear within a justifiably proud family under the circumstances.

A Family Trait 

I think about the common family trait these two share: both choosing to serve in one of the most challenging military branches we have ever had. In his day, Dennis faced a draft but had alternatives to the Corps. He could have served in any other branch. Or, like many of his contemporaries, he could have found a way to avoid military service altogether. Instead, he would not allow the easy way on his list of options.

So, nearly 40 years later, Rudy has nothing compelling him to military service in any branch; yet he chooses to serve and he chooses the Corps, again not the easy way.

Thanks for choosing to serve, Gentlemen. Such men as these earn our respect and deserve our gratitude.

Semper Fi, Marines.