Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Cricut Cartridge Storage

Sonic drink holders make the perfect holder for Cricut Cartridges!

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Sunday, July 20, 2008

Why...in the eyes of a Soldier

I have long been searching for paper that I thought would do my husband's poem justice. I finally found it with the Soldier paper from the Signature Series. My hubby wrote this poem on his first night back on American soil after spending 14 months in Iraq. The photo is from the memorial for the soldier lost in his unit while they were deployed in 2003.
You can read the poem below. Also, photographing layouts in 100 degree weather is bad on adheasive! Everything is properly glued down...it just started coming up with the heat.

Thad Brister
He's quiet as he packs his gear, he won't be back for at least a year. He may never be home again if things go wrong and the enemy wins.
He stops and turns as he opens the door; the tears in her eyes say so much more than the words that either one could say about this trip to a land far away.
Others watch this sad little show, and many say they wouldn't go. Some even ask the question "Why?", he looks away and makes no reply.
Night falls in that distant land as he lay alone upon the sands. There's the sound of shells as he drifts toward dreams and he's lulled to sleep by M-16s.
Bad news comes with the morning sun; in the night they lost another one. He takes his breakfast, an MRE, as he heads out to clear the debris.
Others work at this morbid chore, gathering parts of helicopters and more. A newsman stops them, asks them "Why?" but they keep to their task and make no reply.
He checks his weapon for the hundredth time, only halfway through the night's long ride. The bitter chill of the desert night helps keep him alert and ready to fight.
Tracers cut the sky ahead; an earlier convoy is taking some lead. They pick up speed to join the fight but the enemy fades into the night.
Back at base they watch a show, the guest some actress and her latest beau. They look to the cameras, asking "Why?", he just shakes his head and makes no reply.
He sits on the steps of the TMC, his chin in his hand, elbow on knee. The only light is his cigarette's glow; the blood on his hands and knees doesn't show.
He rode with the wounded an hour before, trying to keep them from death's door. One of the drivers had asked him "Why?" he dressed a wound and made no reply.
He steps off the bus back on his home ground and looks around at the gathered crowd. They spot each other through the throng; they're finally together after so long.
He pulls her tight into his arms and she cries with joy that he's safe from harm. He lifts his son into the same embrace, his family's love shows on his face.
As the scene replays with the others near his thoughts turn to the questions he'll hear; how can he ever explain the "why" to those who never feared to die from a dictator's whim or a terrorist's bomb, or the random violence of a rebel mob?
Through months of trial in the distant sand, his thoughts of his home were close at hand.
Her face was a light on dark lonely nights, his son a beacon throughout the fight.
His family lives without the fear of a madman's guns or torturer's gear.
He holds her tighter to his chest as his own eyes start getting wet. In his arms is his reason "why" and some questions need no reply.

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