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SG-1 gen fic: "Small Drops"
May. 28th, 2008 08:15 pmI mean to post this on Memorial Day, but things, as usual, got in it's way. This is an old piece, circa. 1999, with the occ. clean up here and there. I've tried very hard not to rewrite some of my stuff because I think it loses a bit with too much polish. I don't know if this is one of them, but it's here anyway.
Anyway... here is it. Let me know what you think.
{EDIT} Heck with it. It's short and I'm just going to post it straight. I have a headache and don't want to fight with it.
Title: "Small Drops"
Author: Rowan [Jari L. James]
Email: seticat@comcast.net
Date: 8/10/99
Category: Angst
Spoilers: none
Season/Sequel info: none
Rating: G
Content Warnings: none
Summary: "I will never leave thee not forsake thee."
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I just get to look through their eyes every once in awhile. And they look back through mine.
This story may be archived for AlphaGate and JD-Divas. The title came from thoughts on another writing titled "Small Drops of Comfort". This piece was inspired by a real life experience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Each of us are a sum of our whole. All the unique experiences of our life brought together to create the individuals we become. Much the same way bodies of water are formed by the drops of rain that fall and join together to become a stream, then a river and finally an ocean. Each tiny incident in our pasts bind together to create the memories that drive us; they reach out and touch us in ways we may never be truly become aware of.
Small drops of life that make us who we are.
Have you ever seen a man wander a military cemetery? Taking a moment out of his life to take in the trees and the grass. Pausing to watch the U.S. flag flying overhead, the wind causing it to swell and ripple in the breeze like a living thing. Strolling between the stately rows and columns of markers with no particular end point in sight. Walking with no set goal in mind.
Until something catches his eye. He'll stop, take a step or two back and kneel down on the grass, resting his hand on an old bronze plaque that's green with age and neglect. His head will bow for a moment as if in silent communion with the person who rests beneath the tough, green sod. A strong, callused hand will slip into a pocket to find handkerchief and ratty old knife. Reverently he'll unfold the blade and with slow, purposeful strokes, begin to clean the marker. It may take him 10 ... 15 ... 20 min or so until it suits him, but he'll stay with it… gently scraping away the green corrosion, gradually bringing bright light back to the metal.
That same blade will be called upon to shear the sod away from the edges of the memorial, creating a crisp, neat border, trimming the overhanging strands of grass until the fresh and vibrant green is no longer in control but sits in it's rightful place: a living backdrop behind the plate of golden brown metal that marks a soldier's final resting place. At last satisfied with his handiwork, he'll stand and step back from the grave marker, closing the knife and giving the gold touched bronze one last pass with the wadded piece of cloth; and then stuff the both of them back in his pants pocket.
And when all is done and a sense of military order has been restored, he'll bring himself to attention and, with back straight and head held high, give crisp salute in honor of a fallen comrade. After a moment of silent introspection his arm will return to it's position at his side and with feet executing a smart 'about face' he'll turn and walk away. And as you watch him moving off through the trees you know he's hearing 'Taps' and the crack of a gun salute echoing in the memories he will always carry.
He wasn't at the cemetery for any particular reason that day. He had been driving by, giving a friend a lift to the garage so that man could pick up his own car and his tired, jaded eyes were caught by the flags fluttering at the field's entrance. He didn't stop to look for someone he knew. He stopped at that grave because he saw a site requiring attention and it was part of his personal duty to remember the fallen. By his actions he gave reverence and respect where such were due.
Of such things are small drops of personal honor made.
And today I've seen a side of Jack I've never seen before. And I, and our friendship, are the richer for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated In Loving Memory to:
1Lt. Dorothy Boone Wood, US Navy, Pharmacist, WWII
and
Corpsman 1st Class [and later 2Lt. MSC, Korea] James Leland Wood, US Navy,
[attached to US Marines] - Pacific Theater - WW II.
By their daughter:
MSG/1SG Jari L. James, US Army, Medical Corps, Desert Shield/Desert Storm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And to CWO William P. Milliner, US Army - to listed /POW/MIA 6 MAR 71, Laos
and his family and friends:
"I will never leave thee not forsake thee." [Hebrews 13:5]
Your Brothers and Sisters will find you, William ... and bring you home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyway... here is it. Let me know what you think.
{EDIT} Heck with it. It's short and I'm just going to post it straight. I have a headache and don't want to fight with it.
Title: "Small Drops"
Author: Rowan [Jari L. James]
Email: seticat@comcast.net
Date: 8/10/99
Category: Angst
Spoilers: none
Season/Sequel info: none
Rating: G
Content Warnings: none
Summary: "I will never leave thee not forsake thee."
Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I just get to look through their eyes every once in awhile. And they look back through mine.
This story may be archived for AlphaGate and JD-Divas. The title came from thoughts on another writing titled "Small Drops of Comfort". This piece was inspired by a real life experience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Each of us are a sum of our whole. All the unique experiences of our life brought together to create the individuals we become. Much the same way bodies of water are formed by the drops of rain that fall and join together to become a stream, then a river and finally an ocean. Each tiny incident in our pasts bind together to create the memories that drive us; they reach out and touch us in ways we may never be truly become aware of.
Small drops of life that make us who we are.
Have you ever seen a man wander a military cemetery? Taking a moment out of his life to take in the trees and the grass. Pausing to watch the U.S. flag flying overhead, the wind causing it to swell and ripple in the breeze like a living thing. Strolling between the stately rows and columns of markers with no particular end point in sight. Walking with no set goal in mind.
Until something catches his eye. He'll stop, take a step or two back and kneel down on the grass, resting his hand on an old bronze plaque that's green with age and neglect. His head will bow for a moment as if in silent communion with the person who rests beneath the tough, green sod. A strong, callused hand will slip into a pocket to find handkerchief and ratty old knife. Reverently he'll unfold the blade and with slow, purposeful strokes, begin to clean the marker. It may take him 10 ... 15 ... 20 min or so until it suits him, but he'll stay with it… gently scraping away the green corrosion, gradually bringing bright light back to the metal.
That same blade will be called upon to shear the sod away from the edges of the memorial, creating a crisp, neat border, trimming the overhanging strands of grass until the fresh and vibrant green is no longer in control but sits in it's rightful place: a living backdrop behind the plate of golden brown metal that marks a soldier's final resting place. At last satisfied with his handiwork, he'll stand and step back from the grave marker, closing the knife and giving the gold touched bronze one last pass with the wadded piece of cloth; and then stuff the both of them back in his pants pocket.
And when all is done and a sense of military order has been restored, he'll bring himself to attention and, with back straight and head held high, give crisp salute in honor of a fallen comrade. After a moment of silent introspection his arm will return to it's position at his side and with feet executing a smart 'about face' he'll turn and walk away. And as you watch him moving off through the trees you know he's hearing 'Taps' and the crack of a gun salute echoing in the memories he will always carry.
He wasn't at the cemetery for any particular reason that day. He had been driving by, giving a friend a lift to the garage so that man could pick up his own car and his tired, jaded eyes were caught by the flags fluttering at the field's entrance. He didn't stop to look for someone he knew. He stopped at that grave because he saw a site requiring attention and it was part of his personal duty to remember the fallen. By his actions he gave reverence and respect where such were due.
Of such things are small drops of personal honor made.
And today I've seen a side of Jack I've never seen before. And I, and our friendship, are the richer for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dedicated In Loving Memory to:
1Lt. Dorothy Boone Wood, US Navy, Pharmacist, WWII
and
Corpsman 1st Class [and later 2Lt. MSC, Korea] James Leland Wood, US Navy,
[attached to US Marines] - Pacific Theater - WW II.
By their daughter:
MSG/1SG Jari L. James, US Army, Medical Corps, Desert Shield/Desert Storm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And to CWO William P. Milliner, US Army - to listed /POW/MIA 6 MAR 71, Laos
and his family and friends:
"I will never leave thee not forsake thee." [Hebrews 13:5]
Your Brothers and Sisters will find you, William ... and bring you home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
