JFK House August 27 2009

"He was a man with, among other things, a great gift for friendship. He was a guy born with a lot of advantages, and then maximized his ability to use them on behalf of other people. He was a very powerful, wealthy guy who would reach out to help others in ways that are really very unusual in politics — politics tends to be a kind of jealous business — and Sen. Kennedy really was above that in ways that almost nobody else was." Representative Barney Frank

On my way back from work last week I decided to stop by the house in Brookline, Massachusetts where President Kennedy was born. Even though it was about 7:00 PM and this national historic site had closed at 4:30, a National Park Ranger was still there to greet people who had come to leave flowers and sign a condolence book for the family of Senator Ted Kennedy.

I spent some minutes talking with the Ranger about the Kennedy family. I was somewhat surprised that a family which touched the world started their journey from a small house in a modest residential area. The Ranger noted that this was the first home for President Kennedy's parents. They lived here until 1920 but moved to a larger house after four of the children were born. John Kennedy was born in the house in 1917.

Although, Ted Kennedy had never lived in the Beals Street house, this was a place where neighbors from near and far came when they learned that Senator Kennedy had died after his year-long battle with cancer. Like many others who arrived here after hearing the news, I was drawn by a sense of both sadness for the loss of a great man and gratitude for a family who never looked on their wealth as way to wall themselves away from others. Instead they offered a life of service for the nation and the world.

As I stood on the porch, I wrote down my thoughts in the condolence book about our favorite senator and what he's meant to me over the years. Here at the Kennedy house on Beals Street there were no crowds; it was a peaceful way to remember Ted and the family that has given so much for our country.

Hawaii 1981

Honolulu View of Diamond Head

Hawaii was a place that I had known in my imagination long before I arrived there. During WWII, both my father and my uncle were stationed in the Hawaiian Islands. While my father returned to Massachusetts after completing his service, his brother settled in Honolulu, married a lovely Filipina and raised a family there. Over the years we received pictures of my cousins playing on beaches framed by palm trees, gift packages of tropical food items and colorful flower arrangements of sweet-smelling plumeria and bird of paradise.

In the years before statehood, Hawaii seemed more like a distant foreign land than part of the United States. It wasn't often that we heard from the Hawaiian side of our family as phone calls were too expensive and letters would take a week or so to arrive. In those days before commercial jetliners and budget travel, the idea of visiting our Hawaiian relatives hardly seemed possible.

It was not until the spring of 1981 that, together with my wife and son, I finally got to Hawaii during a short leave taken while we were relocating from Indonesia to Cameroon. After so many years of seeing their photos and hearing about them, I was finally able to meet my aunt and my cousins. As my uncle had passed away some years before, my aunt had struggled to raise their three boys on her own. She soon remarried and the family now included a daughter. My cousin Mackie and his wife Annie picked us up at the airport and gave us a traditional Hawaiian welcome with garlands of fragrant leis. The few days we were able to spend with them were memorable. Mackie and Annie and their three children had a home in Wahiawa which was near where Mackie worked at Schofield Barracks. Like my father, Mackie was a carpenter. Also like my father, his building projects made his house a "work in progress." So I felt right at home.

Annie showed us around Oahu. Although we soon found it was possible to make a circuit of the island within a few hours, our trips around Oahu always took longer. Everywhere we went there was something new to see and experience—from looking over fields of ripening pineapples alongside the Kamehameha Highway, to enjoying shave ice with sweet azuki beans at a roadside stand in Haleiwa, to swimming in the cool, clear water at Waimea Bay, to standing on the Pali Overlook where we could lean against the wind while viewing the valley below and the ocean in the distance. While we did visit some tourist destinations, we found the daily pleasures of "talking story" and making family outings to local markets, parks and quiet beaches far from Waikiki much more enjoyable.

All too soon it was time to leave but we knew we would be returning again. In Hawaii, my wife and I found a multi-cultural lifestyle rich in Asian tradition where we felt at home. Within a couple years we became Hawaiian residents and before the decade was out we had bought our first home there.

Hanauma Bay

Concord Massachusetts — Patriot's Day

Minuteman Statue 1968

In Concord, where the first shots of the American Revolution rang out, Patriot's Day is always celebrated on April 19th. While the official state holiday may now fall on the third Monday of the month, residents of Concord and neighboring towns keep with tradition in commemorating that particular day in 1775 when Minutemen engaged the Redcoats in Concord and Lexington. Today, as residents play the role of local militia and British soldiers to re-create the fight by the bridge, crowds of onlookers will once again thrill to the crack of muskets and the smell of blackpowder smoke.

Growing up in a town that neighbored Concord, on Patriot's Day I often went to the Old North Bridge to witness the re-enactment of the battle. Sometimes, I would walk with local Minutemen as they made their way from Acton to Concord. On those early spring mornings, the weather was typically cold but everyone's spirit was high as we followed the militia on their 7 mile march to Concord. Wearing tri-corner hats and shouldering muskets, our neighbors tried to act the part of 18th century farmers called to war. Accompanied by fife and drum, they gave the appearance of being a determined if not a disciplined lot.

During my youth in the 1950s, the Old North Bridge was not yet part of the national park system. Although world famous for the fight that took place there, the park itself was small. From Monument Street you walked down a short, tree-lined path to the bridge. Across the bridge stood the famous Minuteman statue by Daniel Chester French. Here, a hedge marked the park's limit. You could take it all in within the few minutes it took to walk from the street to the statue. Or you could spend a quiet afternoon pondering what happened here while sitting on a bench overlooking the scene. Except in the summer, the park was seldom busy. Most of those who came by were, like me, local visitors who enjoyed the park's tranquility and natural beauty. If you looked across the river, the Buttrick estate dominated the view. The Buttrick mansion stood on a rise overlooking the river. During spring and summer, flowers on the hillside created a tapestry of color flowing from the grand house down to the riverbank. Today, the flowers are mostly gone as the National Park Service has tried to restore the landscape of 1775. The Buttrick mansion itself has become a visitor center where you can see exhibits describing the Concord and Lexington battles. The Old North Bridge is now just a small part of Minute Man National Park which covers all of the battleground from Concord to Lexington.

With Patriot's Day transformed into another Monday holiday in Massachusetts, for most residents of the Bay State Patriot's Day now means being able to enjoy the first long weekend of spring—a harbinger of the carefree summer days to come. For many, Patriot's Day has become synonymous with the Boston Marathon, a wonderful event celebrated by runners and sports fans around the world. For me, however, Patriot's Day will always be the 19th of April. Wherever I am, this holiday always brings me back to thoughts of Concord and my many visits to the Old North Bridge.

Bangkok and Chiang Mai Summer 1971

As the summer of 1971 approached, some friends in my Malaysia Peace Corps group suggested that we should use our annual leave to visit Thailand. It sounded like a great adventure. None of us had ever been to Thailand or even had much information on what we could do there. But Thailand promised to be a great change from Malaysia, a country that was becoming very familiar.

At the Peace Corps office in Kuala Lumpur, we were able to read information sheets written by PCVs in Bangkok and beyond. These brief reports provided us with a lot of local information about Thailand: where to stay, where to shop, what to see and how to do it all on a PCV allowance. Armed with this intelligence, we coordinated our vacation schedules and prepared for our holiday.

We began our vacation in Kota Bharu in the Northeast corner of Malaysia. To cross into Thailand, we had to walk on a railway trestle over the river that marked the border between Malaysia and Thailand. After passing through Thai immigration and customs— a fairly impromptu set up— we boarded pedicabs for the short trip to the train station. Here we faced our first problem. None of us spoke Thai and nobody we met spoke English or Malay. While the train schedule was prominently posted, we couldn’t read it because it was written in Thai, a script that gave us not even a clue as to which of the many stations listed was Bangkok. All we could decipher were the departure and arrival times. Knowing that the trip took about one day from the border to Bangkok, we made a guess concerning which station should be our destination and, with a bit of trepidation, bought our tickets. We rationalized that, after all, we were traveling up the length of the Thai peninsula. There was no place for the train line to go but to Bangkok. At least, we hoped so.

Train to Bangkok?


When at last the train ended its journey at a major terminal, we disembarked and walked out into the sunlight still not quite knowing where we were. “Bangkok?” we asked a taxi driver standing outside the train station. He gave us a quick look and said, “Thirty dollars.” As our train tickets all the way from Malaysia had cost only a fraction of this amount we began to grow concerned that we perhaps had missed our mark by some distance. An attempt to negotiate a lower fare did not reduce the requested tariff by much. In his own way, the taximan indicated that Bangkok was a long drive. But as thirty dollars was more than any of us were willing to pay, we sought another solution.

We soon realized that few people leaving the train station were getting into taxis. Most headed across the street to the river and were boarding long, narrow boats powered by big engines fitted with a long-shaft to the propeller. We picked up our bags and followed the crowd down to the river. When we got to the pier, we again asked, “Bangkok?” The boatman pointed at the city skyline across the river. We quickly piled into the river taxi and within a few minutes arrived in Bangkok. The cost? Half a baht: about three cents!

We found Bangkok fascinating. With its klongs and temples, crowded markets and jumping nightlife, we enjoyed exploring the city day and night.

Erawan Prayers


After several days of seeing the sights in Bangkok, we talked about where else we might go. Some suggested we ought to cross over into Cambodia to see Angkor Wat. Others recommended we travel north to see Thailand’s hill towns. In the end, we agreed to visit Chiang Mai which we thought would be a comfortable change from Bangkok’s heat. We put Angkor Wat on our destination list for next year. As it turned out, however, the war that soon came to Cambodia closed the country for many years. It was not until 2005 that I was finally able to see the wonders of Angkor Wat.

An overnight night bus took us on the 700km journey (about 435 miles) from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. I called this the Thai Gourmet Tour as our bus seemed to stop every few hours at another all-night eatery where every passenger took the opportunity to feast on grilled Thai chicken, fried noodles and other delights.

Our first view of Chiang Mai was memorable. The rooftops of Chiang Mai glimmered half hidden in the shadows of early morning. As dawn turned to daylight and the mist dissipated, Chiang Mai’s houses and temples gradually came into view, as mystically as Brigadoon, framed against a mountain backdrop. Instead of Bangkok’s din we heard cocks crowing and the quiet sounds of Chiang Mai—spirit house bells tinkling in the breeze like wind chimes.

Lovely Chiang Mai


Chiang Mai, although the provincial capital, had a small town feel. It was easy to get around and meet residents, particularly students who just wanted the chance to practice their English. One student was kind enough to act as our guide in Chiang Mai and tell us something of its history.

As much as we enjoyed visiting many of Chiang Mai’s temples, there was much more to see in and around the city. We had a lot of fun going into various shops selling everything from Thai silk to carved furniture. Each shop seemed to employ a former Miss Chiang Mai as a sales girl to attract customers into buying their goods such as these hand-painted umbrellas.

Chiang Mai Umbrella Shop


I think the highlight of our visit was our trek to Wat Doi Suthep high in the mountains overlooking the Chiang Mai valley. The temple was built in the 14th century on a spot chosen by a sacred white elephant. For the people of Thailand, this temple is an important pilgrimage site on major Buddhist feasts. There was a spectacular view from the temple down to the fields of rice covering the valley floor. On seeing the endless irrigated padi fields stretching to the horizon, I had to remind myself that each of the millions of rice stalks had been planted individually by hand. Thailand’s bounty of rice is truly a miracle of man and nature.

Peace Corps Volunteers at Wat Doi Suthep

Singapore Old and New

Over the years I’ve often traveled to Singapore. My first visit was in late 1970 when I was serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malaysia. At that time, Singapore had only been independent for five years. There was still something of a colonial atmosphere about the place. In part it was the architecture and in part it was the presence of longtime expats at the old pubs and other British hangouts. The pace of life was definitely slower then as there was no reason to hurry and air conditioning was far from universal.

While Orchard and Tanglin Roads had already become the main destination of foreign visitors, there were relatively few tourists. Most visitors were businessmen looking for an opportunity in Singapore’s newly independent economy. Unlike today, there were no broad walkways and megamalls in this part of town. As pedestrians ambled along the crowded sidewalks, they had to edge past snake charmers and other touts trying to cage a few tourist dollars. During the monsoon season, Orchard Road regularly flooded and visitors moved between the hotels and shops in trishaws pushed by men walking through the water. Most of the city at that time consisted of two story shophouses. The few skyscrapers that existed were found along Shenton Way.

The heart of the old city, around the intersection of Temple and Trengganu, was still an area where a visitor felt alien. This traditional Chinatown center remained a world apart. Nearby Sago Lane was still remembered for its houses where the dying were brought. Such traditional death houses had only been banned a decade earlier. The area’s many shops catered to the traditional needs of the local community and not to tourists seeking Singapore kitsch. For a visitor interested in exploring the crowded markets along Singapore's back streets, an ability to speak Hokkien or Malay was more useful than English or even Mandarin.

In the years immediately following independence, an important link with Singapore’s past remained an economy driven by shipping and trade, dominated by a few old established firms. Ships, anchored in the roads just off the coast, could be seen offloading their cargo into lighters tied up alongside. As soon as one lighter would fill, another would take its place.

Lighters not only had a strong engine below deck but also had eyes painted on their bow to guide them as they chugged their way from the outer harbor past the Merlion to godowns lining the Singapore River. There was a constant procession of lighters entering and leaving the river's boat basin. Along Boat Quay, lighters could be seen three and four deep as they jockied for a berth. Night and day, coolies unloaded everything that Singapore traded. Whether the cargo was precious or common, much of it was carried ashore on the backs of men. With practiced effort they balanced their loads across rickety planks laid from the lighters to the roadway. The shift to containerized shipping was still some years ahead. Today’s diversified economy of electronics production, investment banking and international tourism remained a dream yet to be created by Singapore’s leaders.

When the sun set, Singapore was transformed as the city’s car parks became impromptu dining emporiums with dozens of hawkers setting up their push carts to prepare an amazing variety of local food favorites. Whether you were looking for satay, mee goreng, murtabah or even more elaborate dishes, there were many choices. For expats and local elites wanting to enjoy typically British fare, dinner at the Raffles Hotel promised an atmosphere of raffish charm along with its signature cocktail, the Singapore Sling. Many visitors and expats completed their evening by wandering over to Bugis Street to gawk at the nightly parade of transvestites known for their remarkable beauty. The opportunity of sharing a drink, a dance or something more with one of these "girls" made Bugis Street one of Singapore’s more notorious nightspots.

Singapore is a very different place today.

Singapore today is as shiny and up-to-date as the brightest capitals of Europe and North America. Singapore’s growing economy has brought prosperity to its population. The country’s education and healthcare systems are second to none. Crime is low. Employment is high. On Singapore’s Metro you can move comfortably and swiftly to almost any destination in the city. New construction continually updates Singapore’s skyline. To best London, Singapore now has its own giant ferris wheel, the Singapore Flyer—the world’s tallest at 165 meters.

From Benetton to KFC, from Starbucks to Versace, international logos are highly visible throughout the city. And yet, in this rush to a future closely intertwined with other world capitals, a sense of Singapore’s unique and storied history is vanishing as the country reinvents itself for the modern world.

Images from the past remain and yet they’re different somehow. You can, for example, still spend a pleasant, if expensive, afternoon over drinks in the Raffles Long Bar. But with the Raffles transformation into an international tropical resort a decade ago, a great deal of its earlier charm has been lost along with the polished patina of the old woodwork and fixtures. Bugis Street, once infamous as a licentious entertainment district, has now become the site for yet another shopping mall. And at night along Boat Quay, the waterside is bright with neon as visitors and young Singaporeans while away the evening in restaurants and shops unaware that this area used to be a working river where coolies humped sacks of copra and spices from lighters to godowns.

I enjoy the efficient and entertaining city that Singapore has become. I feel at home there. With its modern facilities, Asian hospitality and wonderful Peranakan cuisine, Singapore remains a destination worth traveling halfway around the world to visit. But I also miss the Singapore I have known: comfortably colonial, mysteriously oriental, gritty, tawdry and vibrantly on the cusp of a new age.

When I think of all these changes—not only what has improved but also what has been lost—I take comfort from the wisdom of Buddha who teaches us that all of life is impermanent.

Durian February 2009

Earlier this month Jee and I were in Singapore and Malaysia to celebrate Chinese New Year. This was the first time we had been back for the holiday since our marriage in 1972. While we’ve always celebrated Chinese New Year wherever we happened to be, being distant from Jee’s extended family of brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews, our reunion dinners have been tasty but fairly quiet affairs. So it was wonderful to be together again with so many of our relatives during this special family-centered holiday.

Coming in late January—early February, Chinese New Year coincides with one of the year’s two durian seasons. While the “King of Fruits” is not as plentiful during Chinese New Year as it is during the major season six months later, we were able to enjoy this wonderful and unique fruit throughout our travels from Alor Star near Malaysia’s border with Thailand all the way down to Singapore.

Durian originated in Malaysia and remains a fruit unique to the region. Efforts to transplant durian to other tropical areas have not been successful. And while you can find durian in Thailand and some other Southeast Asian countries, most agree that durian from Malaysia tastes the best.





About the size of a pineapple, a single durian can weigh from two to five pounds. Most of this weight comes from durian’s thick shell which is covered with sharp pointy projections that give the fruit its name: in Malay, durian mean thorny fruit. Once opened, there are five fleshy segments of fruit within the durian. The pulp inside a durian varies in color from ivory to yellow-orange. The texture of this flesh is soft. Eaten by hand, durian sticks to your fingers like a custard.



Much has been written about the offensive smell of durians. The fruit is not allowed in hotels because the smell will travel through the airconditioning and permeate the building. When most visitors to Malaysia are introduced to durian they are repelled by its rank odor. Some compare the fruit’s pungent aroma to rotting garbage and worse.

Durian’s fragrance is both powerful and penetrating. During the season, the smell of durian hangs in the air. Coming to Malaysia as a Peace Corps Volunteer in 1970, nobody had told me about durian. When we landed in Penang I thought the horrible odor I smelled was coming from roadside drains that I imagined must be open sewers. It was not until the next day that piles of durian being sold in the market were pointed out to me as the source of the stench. I couldn’t believe that anyone would want to eat something that smelled so bad. Yet, I was told, durian was the most highly prized fruit in the country. People eagerly awaited the season and would spend large sums for the best durian. I chalked this up as being another cultural mystery I would probably never understand.

Six months later when I had been assigned to an agricultural program in the state of Pahang, I was visiting the home of a Malay colleague. Being an honored guest, I was presented with a whole durian to enjoy. As my host would have lost face had I refused his generosity, I tried to ignore the overpowering odor and managed to eat a few pieces before quickly passing the durian to others gathered around the table. They happily finished the fruit.

I had survived my first taste of durian. And while I found the flavor interesting if difficult to describe, I still didn’t understand why Malaysians talked about durian as if it were ambrosia fit for the gods. I just couldn’t stomach the smell. I’d rather have a good mango any day.

But the strangest thing happened to me when durian season came around again. Once more, the odor of durian was in the air wherever I went. However, instead of finding the smell offensive, it now seemed fragrant—as if the air were perfumed with wonderfully sweet aromas. I couldn’t account for the change in my perception but was now sensing a complexity in durian’s scent that I had not previously imagined. Unlike anything else, the scent of durian could be perceived as foul or fragrant or one that shifted intriguingly from rank to wonderful as I inhaled. Now when I ate durian, I understood the mystery of the fruit’s attraction. Eating durian is like tasting truffles or a ripe camembert. You are either attracted or repelled by an indescribable earthiness woven into durian’s complex sweet flavors. Thank God that most who encounter durian never get past its aroma. The tourists are happy to eat mangoes instead and willingly leave durian to the aficionados. As for me, enjoying durian has become one of life’s great pleasures.

Leaving for Malaysia Summer 1970

In the summer of 1970, together with my Peace Corps Volunteer group, I left the United States and headed to Malaysia. I didn’t really know what I was getting into but was enthusiastic to begin the adventure.

Even though we traveled by jet, flights in those days took a bit longer than they do today. The first leg of our journey was aboard a brand new PanAm 747. While jumbo jets are common today, this was one of the first Boeing 747s put into service. None of us had ever seen a plane this size; it dwarfed all other aircraft around the terminal. It was a thrill just walking on board and marveling at the space in the passenger cabin.

PanAm took us from San Francisco to Tokyo by way of Alaska. I remember getting off the plane in Anchorage and being surprised that even in July Alaska was cold and grey. The mountains that ringed the city were still covered in snow. In the days before tight airport security, while the plane was being serviced we were free to get off and walk around the terminal and even onto the tarmac. Our brief refueling stop in Alaska was to be our last view of a familiar world.

From Alaska we traveled to Tokyo. As we got off the plane at the Haneda airport that evening, I remember how warm and moist the air seemed. While not in the tropics, Tokyo in summer had a very tropical feel. Our group stayed overnight at the Haneda airport hotel. A few of the volunteers decided to take a cab into downtown Tokyo. Most of our group, however, quietly went to our rooms and got some rest before continuing our flight early the next morning to Malaysia.

Our night at the Haneda airport hotel gave me my first sense of being in a foreign land. Unable to understand Japanese, it was the first time I felt isolated from everyone around me other than the group I came with. Even much of the food offered the next morning at the breakfast buffet seemed strange. I stuck with eggs and toast.

From Tokyo we boarded a Boeing 707 for Hong Kong, landing just ahead of a tropical storm. As we approached the British colony, the flying was anything but smooth. Our plane was clearly struggling against strong winds, shaking violently and bouncing the passengers around like we were on a thrill ride. As the plane's flaps lowered and I heard the landing gear doors open, I could look out the windows and see Hong Kong harbor and the city that climbed the surrounding hills. Our plane dropped lower and lower until the Chinese junks in the harbor were seemingly at eye level. It appeared as if our plane was about to ditch into the ocean. When I suddenly felt the plane touchdown on solid ground I realized with relief that the runway extended far out into the water.

The final leg of our flight took us to Penang. By the time we landed, gathered all our luggage, cleared immigration and customs, and then boarded the bus waiting for us, the sun was setting. If Tokyo and Hong Kong had given me a hint of the Asian tropics, in Penang I finally experienced the heat and high humidity of the true tropics. Without the ubiquitous airconditioning available today, my clothes were soon soaked with sweat. I felt enervated and somewhat disoriented. It wasn’t just the tropical heat, however, that I found disconcerting. There were also unaccustomed pungent smells in the air. As we were driven from the airport to our temporary housing for the weekend, I could see concrete drains on either side of the road. From the rank odor, I imagined these must be open sewers. I began to wonder what type of country I had committed myself to. In the growing darkness, as we headed towards town, Malaysia remained very much a place unknown.

We soon arrived at the quarters rented for us near the university. There was a welcoming party ready and plenty of cold beer to beat the heat. After two days of travel I was finally in a country that was to become my home for the next three years. As I wondered in those first hours whether I would be able to cope with the climate and the culture, I could never imagine how my Peace Corps experience in Malaysia would profoundly change my life. Although in the years since completing my Peace Corps service I've lived in a number of countries and have traveled to many more, Malaysia is a place I’ve never really left.

Victoria British Columbia September 2008

Commuter Flight Arriving in Victoria

The Parliament 

The Empress Hotel

Dockside in Victoria Harbor

Leaving Victoria

Marshfield Massachusetts July 3, 2006

Here in New England, we suffer through cold and snowy winters just waiting for the glorious warmth of the summer. While Memorial Day marks the start of the season, summer truly hits its stride on the Fourth of July in celebration of our Independence. In 2006, July 4th fell on Tuesday. This gave many vacationers a long four day weekend to relax at the beach.


Growing up, all my summers were spent in the seaside town of Marshfield. Marshfield is on the Massachusetts south shore just a few miles north of Plymouth where the pilgrims landed. This has long been a vacation area favored by residents of Boston. While Marshfield has many historical connections, for most summer residents Marshfield is loved for its quiet beaches and relaxed atmosphere.


There are several villages along Marshfield's shore. In Ocean Bluff where my parents have a cottage, sunbathers tan on a sandy beach that extends for several miles in a broad arc. Just out of sight across the water is the tip of Cape Cod: Provincetown. From the Ocean Bluff beach, on a clear night you can see a beam from the Wood End lighthouse marking the entrance to Provincetown harbor.


Just south of Ocean Bluff is the village of Brant Rock. Here there's a small grocery, several shops and a number of eating spots including Arthur & Pat's, a favorite for breakfast. While summer residents find this cul-de-sac of commerce convenient, the shops provide essential goods and services for the fishermen and other residents year-round.


With one of the best protected anchorages in the Northeast, most of the local fishing and lobster fleet can be found in Green Harbor, a short walk from Brant Rock's shops.


Here are some pictures that I hope capture the spirit of summer in Marshfield.


Proud Father


Independence Day Colors



Lobster Boats in Green Harbor



Arthur & Pat's





My Dad


"Some people spend their entire lives wondering if they made a difference in the world. But, the Marines don't have that problem." —Ronald Reagan 1985