19 Months, 3 Weeks and 4 Days

That's how long the gentleman said that he had spent in combat in the South Pacific during both the Korean and Vietnam wars. He told me his age was is "three score and ten, plus one." He said, "you don't even know how much that is, do you, young fella?" I said that, yes, I did know that it was 71. He was impressed.

The conversation started only because I was wearing a t-shirt that had some Tagalog writing on it. He asked what it said. I told him that "Tag Hirap" means poor man--or something similar. He told me that there are sure some tough fighters from the Philippines. I told him that I didn't know how tough they are, but they can sure be mean.

He pointed to the scars on his face and removed his hat to show me where the metal plate is. His gnarled finger, he said, came from the Red Chinese just outside of Peking. According to his count, he had some 19 medals from combat. Most of them, he said, were honors bestowed by other countries. In spite of claustrophobia, PTSD, brain trauma, broken bones and time in a POW camp, he returned to the US and began working. And has not taken a sick day in over 20 years. This is the gentleman who ushered me to the voting booth tonight. An election Sheriff.

Yes, I'm glad I voted. I'll never confess to my mother that I voted for (at least) two Democrats in this election. But like the sanctity of military service, there should be sanctity for same-gender marriage. The Republicans on my ballot failed to offer me what I want in that regard.