Blue Skies, Frank...

[The Wingnut]

A friend died yesterday. Frank Tharpe was a navigator on a B-24 in the Pacific during WWII, and a fellow collector. I didn't know him long, only about a year and a half, but he was someone who always had a smile on his face and was happy to see you. Frank witnessed the atomic drop on Hiroshima from the air while flying a mission. He still had his original A-2 jacket, and had assembled a nearly complete collection of original examples of Army Air Corps wings used during WWII...he told me that he was only seeking a set of gold flight surgeon wings.

I'll be attending his memorial service on Tuesday in my dress blues, which will be my first public appearance in them other than for transit home from tech school. I only wish it had been for a less somber event.

You'll be missed, Frank.

Get to know your vets before they're gone, folks.

 

[Hondo]

God Bless you Frank

My sincere condolences to you and your friends family, death seems to be the topic this past week, Betty Hutton, also a high school friend of mine died, just received a call from his brother who happened upon my phone number, I haven’t seen the guy since I gave it to him, that was over ten years ago, any way his brother said his Mom wanted to see me, this is awfully painful but I have to pay my respects, I owe it to his mom for being real nice when I was friends with her son, people lose contact for many reasons, how I hate death, and although I’m not afraid of death, it’s a grim reminder to live and let live. How short we all have on this earth (sighing) death be not proud.

Things ummm happen after a few drinks, excuse my thoughts, death that is, as I met another friend whos days are drawing to a close, how brave of her and her will to look strong, even if frail or fragile, I’ll never for get her smile as I left (sigh) Death be not proud.

Herbert J.C. Grierson, ed. (1886–1960). Metaphysical Lyrics & Poems of the 17th C. 1921.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Honor a vet, for sure, R.I.P.