AJChenMPH
Forum Health Inspector
Showed up in this past weekend's (25-26Aug07) Wall Street Journal. Nice commentary on the majority of the American troops over there; could easily be said of our coalition partners, as well.
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DECLARATIONS
By Peggy Noonan
The Wall Street Journal
Saturday/Sunday, August 25-26, 2007
Page P14
‘To Old Times’
ONCE I WENT hot-air ballooning in Normandy. It was the summer of 1991. It was exciting to float over the beautiful French hills and the farms with crisp crops in the fields. It was dusk, and we amused ourselves calling out “Bonsoir!” to cows and people in little cars. We had been up for an hour or so when we had a problem and had to land. We looked for an open field, aimed toward it, and came down a little hard. The gondola dragged, tipped and spilled us out. A half dozen of us emerged scrambling and laughing with relief.
Suddenly before us stood an old man with a cracked and weathered face. He was about 80, in rough work clothes. He was like a Life magazine photo from 1938: “French farmer hoes his field.” He’d seen us coming from his farmhouse and stood before us with a look of astonishment as the huge bright balloon deflated and tumbled about.
One of us spoke French and explained our situation. The farmer said, or asked, “You are American.” We nodded, and he made a gesture -- I’ll be back! -- and ran to the house. He came back with an ancient bottle of Calvados, the local brandy. It was literally covered in dust and dry dirt, as of someone had saved it a long time.
He told us -- this will seem unlikely, and it amazed us -- that he had not seen an American in many, many years, and we asked when. “The invasion,” he said. The Normandy invasion.
Then he poured the Calvados and made a toast. I wish I had notes on what he said. Our French speaker translated it into something like, “To old times.” And we raised our glasses knowing we were having a moment of unearned tenderness. Lucky Yanks, that a wind had blown us to it.
That was 16 years ago, and I haven’t seen some of the people with me since that day, but I know every one of us remembers it and keep it in his good-memory hoard.
He didn’t welcome us because he knew us. He didn’t treat us like royalty because we had done anything for him. He honored us because we were related to, were the sons and daughters of, the men of the Normandy Invasion. The men who fought their way through France hedgerow by hedgerow, who’d jumped from planes in the dark and climbed the cliffs and given France back to the French. He thought we were of their sort. And he knew they were good. He’d seen them, when he was young.
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DECLARATIONS
By Peggy Noonan
The Wall Street Journal
Saturday/Sunday, August 25-26, 2007
Page P14
‘To Old Times’
ONCE I WENT hot-air ballooning in Normandy. It was the summer of 1991. It was exciting to float over the beautiful French hills and the farms with crisp crops in the fields. It was dusk, and we amused ourselves calling out “Bonsoir!” to cows and people in little cars. We had been up for an hour or so when we had a problem and had to land. We looked for an open field, aimed toward it, and came down a little hard. The gondola dragged, tipped and spilled us out. A half dozen of us emerged scrambling and laughing with relief.
Suddenly before us stood an old man with a cracked and weathered face. He was about 80, in rough work clothes. He was like a Life magazine photo from 1938: “French farmer hoes his field.” He’d seen us coming from his farmhouse and stood before us with a look of astonishment as the huge bright balloon deflated and tumbled about.
One of us spoke French and explained our situation. The farmer said, or asked, “You are American.” We nodded, and he made a gesture -- I’ll be back! -- and ran to the house. He came back with an ancient bottle of Calvados, the local brandy. It was literally covered in dust and dry dirt, as of someone had saved it a long time.
He told us -- this will seem unlikely, and it amazed us -- that he had not seen an American in many, many years, and we asked when. “The invasion,” he said. The Normandy invasion.
Then he poured the Calvados and made a toast. I wish I had notes on what he said. Our French speaker translated it into something like, “To old times.” And we raised our glasses knowing we were having a moment of unearned tenderness. Lucky Yanks, that a wind had blown us to it.
That was 16 years ago, and I haven’t seen some of the people with me since that day, but I know every one of us remembers it and keep it in his good-memory hoard.
He didn’t welcome us because he knew us. He didn’t treat us like royalty because we had done anything for him. He honored us because we were related to, were the sons and daughters of, the men of the Normandy Invasion. The men who fought their way through France hedgerow by hedgerow, who’d jumped from planes in the dark and climbed the cliffs and given France back to the French. He thought we were of their sort. And he knew they were good. He’d seen them, when he was young.