Christmas Eve 1964, I was riding a Greyhound Bus
from Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri to Kansas City and
a visit with my dad. I wore my Army green class A
uniform.
Still in basic training and only having been in service
for barely a month, there were no chevrons or hash marks
on my arms, no medals worn on my chest. I was, however,
proudly wearing the uniform of my country, and glad to be
on a 3-day pass to visit my dad who was to pick me up at
the bus station.
Upon my arrival in K.C., I disembark the bus with my
duffle bag slung over my shoulder. A month previously,
as a skinny and lanky seventeen-year old teenager, I left
home a boy. And although my class A uniform at the
time bore no signs yet of valor or rank, I had taken my
first steps into manhood.
It was back then, I wore brass buttons on my uniform with
shiny U.S. medallions on my lapels. Standing tall with spit
shined shoes and my shoulders thrown back, I marched
up to my dad smiling proudly, greeting with great big a hug.
Dad would never again need to tell me to shine my shoes.
He too now had a reason to be proud.
-30-
Chris Hanch 11-27-2020
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