Happy Memorial Day

Navy jets fly overhead the camp, in honor of those who have given their all for freedom and access to the world's natural resources. We take solace in the fact that we have not lost a Camp Nickleby alum to the wars yet. But we anxiously wait. We are now in the sixth year of a manufactured war, brought to us by BushCo., with no end in sight. Wars are easy to start, but a bitch to stop. A few years ago, when the U.S. death toll was only 1025, I had a zealous, war-mongering student in my class who remarked that 1025 deaths was nothing to defend our freedom and punish the Iraqi people for flying planes into the World Trade Center. He is now serving with the Army near Sadr City. I think about him all of the time.

Many people think that we need to stay in Iraq until we 'win', whatever that means or looks like. I believe we extract ourselves like you would out of any alcohol-induced mistake; wait 'til they're asleep, then just sneak out around 2:30 in the morning. And don't call them later! Bring them home now! Please vote accordingly in November.

I came upon the following poem by Mark Twain. It was written in 1904, but it still rings true today. Although some people might consider war 'romantic', it is anything but.

The War Prayer

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen".

--- Mark Twain