Showing posts with label patriot guard riders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label patriot guard riders. Show all posts

Sunday, December 3, 2017

A Tribute to Ron "Pappy" Papaleoni

A Tribute to Ron "Pappy" Papaleoni

Everyone has been posting their memories of Pappy. It has taken me awhile to decide what to say. Words do not always come easily. I met Pappy when we were working on the Patriot Guard Rider (PGR) Video with Cindy Smith. He was a great organizer and motivator. We grew closer when we started the book PTSD No Apologies, a book that Pappy was a part of creating. We then worked together on George Woodruff's book, Just Before Taps. We spent hours hidden away in windowless rooms at the legion going through edits and discussing/arguing over comma’s. Of course the oxford comma is correct. Discussing Pappy’s death with George was one of the hardest things I have done.
I was greatly saddened about three years ago when Pappy invited me over for dinner. Pasta of course. He told me that he had received news from his Dr. that his lungs were greatly damaged and they only gave him about 4 years to live. Again, words escaped me. I hugged him and cried.
Pappy knew he was dying. And he was as productive as possible with what time he had. He accomplished much. He wrote a riveting story for the PTSD book, and I encouraged him to write his own book. But time had other plans. It slipped away, and so has he. I will miss his yearly phone calls to assure me that I made Santa’s list. Pappy explained that there was only one list, the nice one, not two which is a common misconception.
Life is short and we are not always given advance notice of how much time we have left. Love people while they are here. I love you too Pappy, and your story will go on forever.
Hugs, Lynn

This stuff only happens to the living (Excerpt from PTSD No Apologies)

Ron Papaleoni USN CPO Retired

Having grown up in an era where the term Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) never existed and those suffering with that yet to be named disorder were commonly referred to as having “shell shock” or “soldier’s heart”. Most folks (mostly military) were labeled as malingerers or cowards. Civilians having the same symptoms were “having an episode” or “nervous breakdown” or just plain crazy. It wasn’t until I retired from the military (1981), that the term PTSD became a part of our common language.
My early childhood was filled with getting beaten up at elementary school because I was fat and a “goody-two-shoes”. This is what led me to become the class clown. I didn’t get beaten as often and actually made some friends. The beatings weren’t exclusive to school. My dad was an alcoholic and sometimes would beat me with his belt due to, what he called a “smart ass remark”. He was a binge drinker and as such, these incidents were infrequent but memorable not the less. But it was enough for me to move out of the house at 16 and join the Navy at 17.
As we have learned, this documented disorder has been around going back to Egyptian times and mostly involves the military and war. However, as in my case, it is very likely to occur following ANY type of serious emotion trauma. My time in a “war zone” was brief and uneventful and yet during the three years that bracketed that event was the worst the war had to offer. In the mid 1960’s, I was serving a non-medical assignment at one of the largest military hospitals in the Far East.
I watched the daily patient count rise from just over a hundred, most of those being not combat related, to over 700 at the height of the Tet offensive. I witnessed wounds that were the worse man could inflict on another human being. Our doctors, nurses and corpsmen had to finish to work that began in the field of combat. Repairing severed limbs; doing plastic surgery; rearranging vital organs; performing physical therapy; dealing with both the physical and mental anguishes of war while some of those patients lay waiting in the passageways to be seen or waiting weeks for a bed.
As non-medical personal, we were obliged to perform “duties” of a non-medical nature such as ambulance driver; baggage room and customs (this meant going through a patients personal effects when they finally got around to send them). This that all of their personal belongings were sent to after their arrival. We had boxes filled with weapons; drugs; unauthorized souvenirs (like gold trinkets) and just plain weird crap like human scalps.
We were called upon to perform other duties like human tissue removal from the Operating Rooms. Not pleasant but necessary. If after the every six hour bed count, someone was missing, we had to secure all the exits and search for the missing patient.
Usually it was uneventful but sometime they were passed out in the head (bathroom) or sleeping in the wrong place or one time, under the hospital. Our hospital was elevated due to close proximity to the ocean. One evening while manning the “After Hours” desk, we had a report that one of our patients from the Psych ward was missing, we secured all the exits and began our search, and my team (per our SOP) had to search one of the four exterior quadrants.
We spotted our patient underneath the hospital about twenty feet in. As the senior ranking team member, it was determined that I needed to go in first to evaluated the situation. With four able-bodied Hospital Corpsman five feet behind, I crawled in and as I got closer, I observed that he was kneeling and looked like he was playing with marbles in his hand. A few long seconds later, he slumped over to the side and we discovered a single edge razor blade in one hand and his testicles in the other. Despite the massive amount of blood loss he survived. If we hadn’t found him, he would have become another victim of this war. During the mid-60s through mid-70s, I lost a number of friends; classmates and shipmates in the Vietnam Conflict.
Throughout my life there has been trauma. Motorcycle accidents, numerous surgical procedures to correct motorcycle injuries, dealing with our mother’s Alzheimer’s, my parents’ death, my 5 year old nephew dying while in heart surgery, my best friend’s debilitating fall of 50 feet, a bull goring my leg, my daughter losing her leg below the knee, an ex-wife’s death, a divorce, and losing a son to suicide when he was 17.
After my son’s death in 1982, my therapy involved drinking massive qualities of alcohol. Not only to ease the pain, but to deal with “What could I have done different?” It didn’t help. I spent most of his insurance money on things I didn’t need; couldn’t afford; to impress people I didn’t even like. It did however, put me into a different kind a trauma. The trauma of being an alcoholic, just like my father. I never beat anyone; only drank on occasion and never stopped at just one drink. Why? After a few years of sobriety and therapy, it seemed that the trigger for the “binge” was usually related to a significant event or trauma. My deceased son’s birthday, anniversaries of his death, any major event were I was expected to attend were some of the triggers. I would go out with a couple of buddies after work, have a few and when they went home to their families; I stayed and had a few more. This caused many encounters with law enforcement.
I’ve been sober from over 25 years. Still have MANY issues regarding family, anger, health, aging and visions of the past. After many years of packing those traumatic incidents in a box and hiding them in a closet, I’ve come to realize that is not the best thing for me to do. I know that in the past, counseling has helped, but I still resisted because……I still can’t find the answer to that. I try my best to stay busy, but lately health issues has interfered. I want to have patience, but struggle with anger.
I’m a work in progress, and as my mother would often say when there was a crisis, “This stuff only happens to the living.”

Sunday, April 5, 2015

PTSD- No Apologies Open Call for Submissions




22 Soldiers commit suicide every day.

That needs to stop.

It is our wish to share your story with others, so they know that they are not alone. I believe that PTSD is far more rampant than is projected.



Many dwell in silence. Living one day to the next.

NO APOLOGIES

For me writing is a release. I think it could help others as well. To purge your soul, free your heart and mind.
To tell your story.

NO APOLOGIES

We accept stories, poems, songs, art, photos. Anything you would like to share.
 Anonymous submissions are accepted.

Or if you need help writing, I have authors available to help.

NO APOLOGIES

Contact: 
Lemon Press Publishing
PO Box 459 Emerson, GA 30137



Introduction- By Lynn Hubbard

Some memories stay with us forever. I used to live in New Jersey. There wasn’t much self-sacrifice at our school. In junior high we had a guest speaker. The entire school was herded into the auditorium to hear him speak. There was much chatter ad mayhem as we fumbled for seats next to our friends. Once more or less settled, the Principal introduced to us a man.

He was different from the typical stiff tied puppet that was usually announced. This guy was not perfect, he had scars. This fact in itself caught our attention.

Then he began to speak, and we listened to his story. 

He had been injured in Vietnam. He was on a patrol boat on a river. The air was thick with smog and the river was even filthier. He stood on deck keeping watch, An enemy boat approached and fighting commenced. A phosphorus grenade exploded in his hand and ignited him. . He was thrown free from the vessel, and into the oil filled river. The river burned and so did he.

He ducked under the water to escape the flames, but the water was so polluted they would not extinguish. He started to sink, yet the fire still burned. He burned all the way down, and all the way back up as he swam for the surface.

Even then he had a zest for life. It would have been easy to just give in and be engulfed. But he wasn’t done yet.

Guided by the flames above, he broke through gasping for air.  He was pulled back onto the boat and the flames were beat out.

I can’t imagine the agonizing pain he must have went through just to live. But live he did. He recuperated, slowly. And fate brought him to my school. 

By now the room was silent. Each lost in their own thoughts. And then he started to yell. To yell about how we are wasting our lives. Lives that we have, due to the sacrifices of our soldiers.
It was at this point in time that the staff started to evacuate us from the room. They escorted us out and I could still hear him shouting out his message.

For us to Live.

That we have a purpose.

And then we were rushed down the hallways, and back to our safe little rooms.

Then it happened.

The teacher apologized to us.

FOR HIM.

I was pissed then, and I’m still pissed now.

So this book is being written for him. And for anyone who needs to be reminded that they have a purpose. 

That they need to live.

Living is so much more than just surviving.

Surviving is the easy part. 

Living is hard, but oh so worth the effort.

No Apologies.








Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The Patriot Guard Riders


I was sitting at my computer and checked my email with a click. My heart feels heavy as I see the PGR request. Another soldier has fallen and the Patriot Guard Riders are on their way.

Photo by Gary Adams, GA PGR

Who is the PGR? They are a nameless bunch, never asking for any reprieve or reward. I’m sure you’ve seen them though on TV or at a grave. They are the ones, standing watch while our flag waves. The Patroit Guard Riders volunteer their time. They ride shotgun for our soldiers, fireman and police when they are called from this earth. They dedicate their time protecting the families from spite. And they are there to show support and display their quiet might.

There motto is: Standing for those who stood for us. And they proudly do!
I was lucky enough to meet these giving souls on better terms than most. We are working on a way to spread the word. A country group has sung a song to aid in this quest. Alias, Smith & Owens sing so our soldiers may rest. They may lie in peace, knowing that their loved ones can grieve without reprieve.

They protect our soldiers honor while they travel on their way. They may look intimidating with their bikes and leather boots. But let me tell you, their hearts are filled with gold as they try to spread the truth.
So together we wanted to introduce you to the group. And if you are interested in riding, or just holding a flag; sign up or donate to help them on their way.

A little something that popped into my mind,

And So They Came
By Lynn Hubbard

A soldier has fallen, a life was lost. And so they came. One by one they suited up in black, red, white & blue. Their badges of courage sewed to their vest gives meaning to it all. Their flags proudly flowing in the breeze as they rumble down the road. Men and women, road weary and brave to guide the fallen home. Some live close, some live far but they all hear the call. Another brother has lost the fight, so come lead the way. They die too young, some say as tears moisten their eyes. Their dark shades hide the grief they have buried deep inside. Those that live never forget what they gave for us to be free. For there always is a price, freedom isn’t free.

Patriot Guard Riders-National http://www.patriotguard.org/
Georgia PGR Website http://www.pgrofga.com/
Alias, Smith & Owens Website http://aliassmithandowens.com/


Sunday, December 22, 2013

Santa: Do You Believe?


I grew up believing in Santa Claus. And I still do. I tried to share this with my children. My oldest welcomed Santa with open arms, and had a LONG list of requests every year. When his brother was born he dutifully informed Santa of Michael’s wishes as well as his own.
Michael was not appreciative of Santa’s generosity and getting a picture with the Head Elf became harder and harder. Lots of tears and kicking. About the age of five I finally gave up on the perfect Christmas Card picture.
In fact, getting both of my children in a picture together while smiling was becoming a great challenge. So much for the wonderful dreams I once had. My world shifted from happy pictures of toothless babies to grumpy teens. Time certainly does change, but Santa is still the same.
And that awkward moment when I was questioned if he was real or not?
Well, Santa only brings presents to those who believe.
So Santa still visits my house every year.
I was even fortunate to recently meet the real Santa. (I have been advised, I am on the nice list.)
Imagine my surprise when I found out he rides a motorcycle and does volunteer work with the Patriot Guard Riders (PGR) for our Veterans. I was fortunate to be able to work with him on a charity project. And we would like to share it with you.
Because the most important thing about the Holidays isn’t found under a tree.
It is in our hearts.
Patriot Guard Riders Tribute