Beautiful Times

If you stuck around as a subscriber with so long a silence… thank you. I can only offer you a meager, half-true “been busy.”

I’m going to force myself to write more often.

January

“Diane, I’m taking lunch.”

A walk outside the hospital. Columbia sweater zipped up. It’s chilly, but I don’t want to be in the unit when the clock strikes midnight. I want to be outside, my thoughts unconfined.

Fireworks boom. A new year now. What will this one bring?

Hopefully this morning doesn’t bring a code grey.

Lord, give me good success this year.

February

A windy route through the mountains. Cold forests, clean air. An early-morning drive with music loud. A sleepy town. It’s a treat a to work a shift here.

Punch my code into the door, make a pot of coffee and then check-out the ambulance. We’re short two 18-gauges, a pillowcase and a mega-mover. The Tylenol is about to expire. Make a note, restock.

Settle into the crew quarters, watch a documentary. Ringer on. Radio doesn’t work here as well as a cell phone.

Lunchtime. “Jim, what do you want from the burger bar?” We can eat unhealthy when we’re on the clock.

He comes to mind each time I’m here, a ghost from a year past. I still can hardly believe it when I remember that morning. A bullet through the head and he lay on his front porch the whole night as we searched for him.

“He’s still breathing.”

I remember noticing he had a week’s worth of stubble on his face as I shakily wrapped a hemostatic around his head.

A refilled cup of coffee. It’s a quiet shift (not that I can say that out loud.)

One call in the afternoon. A lady in a run down trailer; she’s dizzy, she says, as she takes a drag on her cigarette. A straightforward transport, boring sets of vitals. A joke made with the triage nurse. I grab my paperwork and my partner and I are out the door.

A thought—he died right there, as we pass the turnoff on the way back. We pulled over to wait for a helo just in time for his heart to stop. I still have the shirt I soaked with sweat during CPR that morning.

“I think we’re gonna stop.” The deepest of sighs. I sag into the bench seat, grip loosening on the BVM. Outside a storm threatens rain.

A chuckle when I hear that she ditches the ER before we even get back to base. Go figure. Glad you feel better, ma’am.

My last 911 call for the year (forever?)

A fine closeout to four years in EMS.

March

Hollywood Hills. A gathering with a dress code of “cocktail attire.”

Was that an actual bodyguard at the door? The very conscious feeling of being out of my element. No matter, that’s part of why I’m here. Trying new things this year, networking, etc. We all subscribe to the same niche journal in the same cultural space, doubtless I’ll get along with some of the people here.

An interesting cast of characters. Authors, filmmakers, publishers. Manifold anonymous Twitter accounts. A guy who works at the hot new defense contractor. An old sports reporter. A pipe-smoking Calvinist who is really into Nietzsche. A few LA art-scene hangers-on types, clearly just there because the food is good and they know the host. Some people to be instantly liked, some to be instantly loathed. Not many in between.

I had asked an AI what sort of non-alcoholic drink I could get and it said something about a pomegranate mojito mocktail, so I requested that.

“You don’t drink?” asks the AI entrepreneur behind me in line.

“I don’t like the taste.”

“No one drinks for the taste.”

“Well, I guess I just haven’t been socialized into it yet.”

A good retort that earns a laugh, but not strictly true.

Music that was a bit too loud. A decent speech by the editor. Eventually I leave, after taking a bathroom selfie, collecting a few numbers and staring wistfully at the LA skyline.

How can a place like this be so wealthy, so pretty, yet also so unappealing?

“Its not the place, its the people.”

An hour’s drive north to my alma mater. The next day spent with old friends, the sort of people that make a place worth visiting and remembering.

April

Honduras. Far afield. Days full of joyful service.

Medicine. Triage and sets of vitals with a teenage translator. She’s 15, wants to be a nurse someday. Everyone here just takes “Acetaminophena,” regardless of age or ailment. Care given under the shadow of a—the—cross.

Construction projects, children’s events, the fellowship of the saints, the preaching of the Word. Good food. Jokes made, hearts full of a love for God and each other that transcends cultures.

Quiet, warm nights of rest after the day’s rewarding labor. Solitary walks around the seminary compound. My first 5k outside the United States, run in circles at night on the soccer field. “Nandemonaiya - English Version” on repeat.

The delicious melancholy of feeling lonely while being with a group of people who love you.

A call from my grandfather. The cancer has taken his ability to walk, so he’s going to surgery.

A whispered prayer far from home.

May

Someone’s graduation. Dinner and celebration. Such pride, such good memories in this place.

Heart breaking. How do you tell friends you love them and aren’t sure you’ll see them again? Is today September 10th?

A smile and a couple hugs.

“Four years is a long time.”

A late night letter to a penpal, next day’s long drive home alone.

Central California is so boring. Thank God for music. DJ, queue up something good.

June

He’s bed bound now. So different, so much the same.

Jokes that make my side ache. Cancer hasn’t made him less funny, hasn’t dimmed his smile.

Five generations in one room. Over forty years of marriage.

“Remember when—?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Buddy, live for God!”

A charge, an admonition from an old preacher. Can I live up to it?

Walking out the door knowing he’d be gone when I returned.

The cycle of life. One day that will be my father, and then the next time, me.

July

“Dog days.”

Traveling to a friend’s wedding. Running in triple digit temps. Making friends with the barista across the street. “Lemon poppy seed, right?”

Savoring my hometown.

Long, early drives to Sacramento. Overtime at work. Drown myself in busy-ness. Its crunch time, the world will speed up very soon. Locking in.

“Sure, sounds fun. I’ll be there.” I almost didn’t go.

I’m glad I did. A good lunch, even better conversation. What if—?

A call on my drive home. “I’m gonna do it.”

August

Final preparations. Last shifts at work.

Goodbyes. Some heartfelt, some tentative.

“If you see me in the next ten weeks, that’s a bad thing.”

Half-expectation of failure. Maybe that made it courageous.

Early September

Yellow footprints. Induction week. Boxed chow sucks.

“Delta 5!”

“SHUT THE F— UP!”

“Black Friday.”

“Alpha 2!”

“FROM YOU, WE DEMAND THE FOLLOWING!”

Two sheets and a blanket, two hundred times that day. “Wet scuzz” with bleach. Pushups to cadence—

“CANDIDATES—NEED—DISCIPLINE!”

2050.

“TURN TO EVENING DEVOTIONS!”

Glorious, blissful silence. My bowed head. Unashamed silent tears. Not fear or sorrow, but intense relief. The knowledge: “I will make it through this just fine.” Thanking God.

The platoon commander walking up the highway. Surely he saw.

Late September

“LIGHTS LIGHTS LIGHTS!”

“COUNT—OFF!”

“WHO NEEDS TO SEE THE CORPSMAN?”

PT. Class.

“OKAY, ZERO!”

Drill. Drill drill drill drill drill.

“DITTIES ARE OFF!”

Standing online whispering to my rackmate—“you having fun yet?”

The Leadership Reaction Courses.

First billet evaluation. Candidate Platoon Sergeant sucks, 0/10 would recommend.

Beginning of October

First libbo. Glorious freedom. Goodbye for 24 hours, Brown Field.

Coffee, Five Guys, a shower longer than 2.5 minutes.

Music for the first time in a month.

“I made it to my first liberty evaluation :) wanna FaceTime?”

Middle of October

More PT. More class. Weapon’s maintenance. Commander’s time. Square-away time.

“F—ing Rhinehart, its always you asking for g—d— mail.”

Tactical decision games. Guided discussions. Small Unit Leadership Evaluations.

The O-Course. Soon, the biggest physical test of them all.

End of October

Final E-Course, launching in fireteam order.

Begin with the O-Course. Over the low vault, chicken-wing the single bar, low vault again. Over the combo, over the six foot wall, low vault, the four high vaults, low vault again. Modified college boy roll over the double bar, one last low vault, rope climb, touch the tape and slide down.

Shrug the load-bearing vest on the body while on the move. Canteens full—no integrity violations. Slip-ring death grip on the M16A4, dash down Demo Road, cut to the right at the air shed, plunge into a beautiful forest, in the splendor of Virginia autumn.

Pacing myself as I go. Not a slacker, not a superman, just consistent effort. Acting like an Officer of Marines T-Minus two weeks.

“Promontory” playing in my head on full volume, the notes under my breath as I pant.

One mile down. “One foot takeoff, two foot landing.” Commando crawl, barbed wire, net wall. Passing my rackmate on the next stretch.

Two miles down, one to go. Plunge into Smelly Gully. Mud crawl. Soaked now, thank God for vented boots. High vaults and low vaults.

Almost there. Last water obstacle. Passing the observing Commanding Officer on the way. A breathless, “good morning ma’am.”

One last heave up the hill.

“Good morning Gunnery Sergeant! Candidate Rhinehart, Timothy!”

gasp

“36:33! 36:33! 36:33!”

Walking back to the barracks. Euphoria. That was fun. Washing the mud off of my rifle.

“When we were even I thought, ‘okay, I’ll just stay with him the rest of the way.’ Then you took off and I thought, ‘yep, that’s a future infantry officer!’”

Beginning of November

“The Forge.” Two and a half days, three MREs, four hours of sleep, fifty-five miles of hiking. Squad attack after squad attack. Posting security, laying on the deck. Night lanes.

“I can’t believe that trash just came out of your mouth.”

The Quigley. One cannot become a Marine Officer without passing through that culvert. Hammering my mud-clogged rifle on a log, motorcycle kick-starting the bolt that won’t lock back.

The last morning. 6.2 mile hike. The strains of music on the loudspeakers as we file onto Brown Field.

“Good morning Marines.”

The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor ceremony.

Platoon commander in front of me, taking a deep breath.

“Good job, Rhinehart. Welcome to the Corps, brother.”

A shaken hand. A piece of enamel that holds three and a half years of work.

Tears, again, unashamed.

Middle of November

“I, Timothy Duncan Rhinehart, do solemnly swear...”

“…that I take this obligation freely…”

“…So help me God.”

A first salute from my father. A new connection forged between us.

Someone special pins my rank on my collar for the first time, then smiles at me as I beam back.

December

Christmas Eve.

Thank God for holiday block leave.

Hymns sung at church. O, Holy night. The stars are, indeed, so brightly shining.

A hearty dinner. A couple plays a chess game—the girl lost, better luck next time. The girl sitting next to me is holding a baby.

I remember a patient who would have turned four today.

God knows. “Behold, I make all things new.”

A quiet cup of coffee, then a drive back home.

New Year’s Eve

Bible trivia. Orange chicken. Espresso cookies. Theological debates. Time spent with new friends at one house, and old friends at another.

New years plans? Reading a lot more. I think I’ll keep my EMT cert current after all. The Infantry Officer Course, if I can hack it.

Gratefulness to God for this last year, and the next.

“I should write a Substack post, I haven’t done that in awhile.”

“What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time.” — Ecclesiastes 3:9-11b

Thanks for reading. Enjoy some music on your way out.

I am a Marine Corps Officer, EMT, perennial student, and Northern California native intent on improving my writing skills. I’ll gladly consider all feedback, which you can direct to my email. You can also find me on Instagram @tduncanr