Friends Old, New, and Soon to Be,
I believe we southerners are second only to the Buddhists with regard to tradition and ancestor worship. It’s a trait that informs how we name our children (it’s why I have three first, or three last, names), how we gather, and how we communicate. On my mother’s side, we trace our lineage back to Richard Russell, Sr., and Ina Dillard Russell. Obviously, two bloodlines preceded that marriage, but it produced fifteen children, thirteen of whom lived, nine of whom reproduced, and 134 years later, we’ve made so many ancestors, few of my countless cousins have time to go any further back.
On the porch of the house in which those thirteen children lived hung a bell. One decided to ring it to wish departing guests a safe journey. That became a tradition spread across the nine lines of descent. Now we call it “Giving a bell.” Somewhere along the way, we started clapping and cheering to add to the general positivity of the clamor. It’s something perhaps disconcerting to first-time departees, who might wonder if they’ve overstayed their welcome, but for us it’s become a means of expressing our hopes for a safe journey to the next place. That we do it graveside at funerals, much less at more prosaic events, is even more confusing for the uninitiated. It’s such a reflex for me, I’m sure my neighbors wonder why I cheer my wife and daughter off to work and school in the morning.
I’m at a phase of life in which events marking departures are regular occurrences, be they retirements, children’s graduations, or funerals, and the rituals matter. Recently, I went to two Marine Corps retirement ceremonies in two days. Insofar as ceremony and tradition go, the Marine Corps is a comfortable place for a southern boy, particularly at retirements, when we recognize someone’s dedication to something greater than themselves, and celebrate years often characterized by intensity giving way to a more peaceful existence.
Marines mark one of our number “going over the side” in ways that range in formality from formations marching to the sound of a band to a few grizzled characters who stood together when it mattered, if only to them, gathering in the corner of a bar. I experienced both ends of the spectrum over two days.
I’m a little jaded, long past pomp and circumstance. But there’s something about the massing of troops, the call of commands, and long-faded tattoos peeking out of uniform sleeves joining to acknowledge a man wounded leading a squad in Fallujah, Iraq, rising to command a battalion, retiring twenty years later. I would be lying if I did not acknowledge the knot that formed in my throat as I watched flags flying above ranks of troops. I was honored to have earned a seat in the crowd, to feel a part of the machine again, if only for a moment. But in the Marine Corps communities in which I spent the predominance of my career, we mark departures with a paddle ceremony, something much less formal but imbued with the deepest of meaning.
The paddle symbolizes the Marine’s role in a boat crew, and the ceremony recognizing that commences months before the day of departure. The paddle gets stripped, sanded, and stained, passed from hand to hand at each step. It’s a manifestation of the fundamental truth that military service is a team effort. Increasingly, paddles are custom-made of exotic woods, built longer than the recipient is tall, and recognizable as a paddle only for its basic shape. Symbols of service, contributed by Marines who served with the soon-to-depart, are added to the blade of the paddle. The shaft gets wrapped in colored parachute cord, the intricate patterns rooted in the nautical history of wrapped brightwork on naval vessels and symbolizing places and events in service.
At the presentation, the Marine who oversaw the paddle’s creation, typically someone very close to the guest of honor, reminds everyone of the rules of the paddle party, violations of which are typically “punished” with alcohol. I’ll leave the rules to the participants, but it’s a time to tell stories of risks taken, bravery witnessed, and often, idiocy displayed to uproarious laughter. But as the truth serum flows, it's ultimately a time to finally say things long unsaid in a stoic culture, with words like “love” more freely issued by men more used to issuing commands. That always makes me think
I think marking time, particularly departures, matters. But I think telling people you love them for no reason at all, save the fact that you may not get another chance, matters even more. I don’t think we should wait for defined ends to tell someone that they matter. Let’s all stand in the driveway, ringing bells, clapping and cheering every time they pull off.
Yours,
Russell Worth Parker
Editor-in-Chief, Tom Beckbe Field Journal