Coda
Boys and girls in uniform are children of our village
Greg Bean

I remember when Jimmy Mac was a goofy kid with a devilish twinkle in his eye. The best friend of my youngest son, he was as polite as could be. His company manners were impeccable, since his mom and dad had drilled them into him and his brother and sisters. In all the years I've known him, he's never called me anything but Mister Bean, and he calls my wife Missus. That's the kind of boy he was raised to be, and that's the kind of man he became.

Let him and my son out of your sight, however, and it was a different story. The mischief they got into was legendary - but I won't shame either of them by recounting their exploits here.

Still, we loved him like a son, and did what we could to make him feel welcome in our home. I can't remember all the times I came home from work to find him asleep in my favorite lounge chair (I don't let anybody sit in my recliner), the remains of a sandwich, a tall glass of chocolate milk and cookies beside him on a plate.

One day, I came home late from work and found him standing in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator. There wasn't another soul in the place.

"What are you doing in my house? In the dark?" I asked him gruffly.

He smiled. "Making a peanut butter sandwich," he said. "I was passing by and realized I was hungry."

Those memories came back to me sharply this week, when I received an e-mail message from my young friend. Seems he and some of his colleagues had the opportunity to have lunch with a former astronaut, and wound up getting their pictures in the local paper. The publication was the Kintai Shinbun, which serves the area around Marine Corps Air Station Iwakuni in Japan, where Lance Cpl. James M. McManus is currently stationed as an armorer.

Jimmy Mac joined the Marine Corps right out of high school and went in just about the time my middle son was being discharged from the Army. Although we're not his blood parents, we were as proud of him when he finished boot camp and came home on leave as we were of our own boy when we pinned the infantry paratroopers medallion on his collar. So tall and strong, so sharp, so put together. So proud of his accomplishments and the decision he had made to serve his country. And seeing him in that newspaper photo with the astronaut (or at least the back of his head), I was proud all over again.

Here's the thing. Too often when we turn the television on at night and see the latest in a long and bloody string of news reports from Iraq, or Afghanistan, or wherever our soldiers man the front lines in defense of our nation, we forget that these soldiers are our kids, whether we're related to them or not. To steal from Hillary Clinton, they're the children of our village.

They're the kids we schlepped in the car pool every Saturday on the way to soccer games. They're the kids who accompanied our sons and daughters to proms and weekend parties. They're the kids we cheered from the sidelines when they blocked a pass or made a nice first down. They're the kids we scolded when they got in a little trouble, just like they were our own. They're the kids who helped themselves to our peanut butter, even when we weren't around. They're kids we love, and for whose safety we pray before we sleep at night.

They're kids like Jimmy Mac, all grown up and a long way from home.

And if you know one of them, if one is a member of your extended family, this is a good time of year to put together a care package, or maybe just a note to let them know they're on our minds.

So although I know he'll be embarrassed by the attention, I also know that Jimmy Mac reads this column online. And I think he knows I'm speaking for a lot of people in this country, and about all of his fellow soldiers in our nation's military when I say, "Happy holidays, my young friend. Know you're in our hearts and minds. Know we're proud of you and the choices you've made. May God bless you and keep you safe. May He send you home soon, because we miss you dearly."

Heck, you know what, son? I miss you enough I'd even let you sit in my recliner.

•••

After I wrote about Ralph the buffalo skull a couple of weeks ago, and how my sons and I welcome the holidays in our house by putting red Christmas balls in his eye sockets, I heard from several men who thought it was funny, and several women who said they feel sorry for my wife. This message from one female reader is typical.

"Good morning, Greg: I loved your column about Ralph. Please tell your adoring wife that she has my most sincere sympathy. The poor, poor dear."

Another reader, who suggested I use my political contacts to have Ralph designated "A moose for all seasons," nevertheless stated in her message that "I must apologize as one wife to another to your wife."

And another reader, who said she found nothing funny about anything in the column, not even the part where I described Ralph hanging above the wood stove like a "large and deranged Christmas sprite," said I sounded like the kind of tasteless fellow who would "hang garland from a stuffed fish."

To which I can only say in return: Lady, I'm sorry you didn't like the column, but I have to ask. Who let you in my den to look at the Christmas trout?

•••

Few columns in the last year generated as many responses as my recent column about cops having trouble distinguishing between some fake guns available to kids and real weapons.

While I received some thoughtful replies, I also got a lot of angry notes from National Rifle Association members in Florida and Louisiana who wanted to give me a lecture about the Second Amend-ment.

Sorry, guys, you missed the point. I'm a big defender of the Second Amendment and the right of private citizens to own firearms. I just oppose putting toys that look like real guns in the hands of children. Too many of those kids are getting killed.

Gregory Bean is executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at gbean@gmnews.com.