I sent a copy of my essay, Fighting for Dad, to my Congressman, Harry Mitchell, D-AZ05.

This is the first time in my life that I have sent a letter to my congressman. I would have expected a response of “Don’t worry about this”, “we’ve got this covered”, or at least a flat “Sorry. That is the price that has to be paid”.

I did not expect my heart-felt and close to home letter to be answered with a form letter that took none of my concerns into account. Before this, I always thought that Conressman Mitchell generally stood up for veterans rights.

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Not so long ago, First Sergeant Paul John Reeder was a force to be reckoned with. His soldiers might tell you that he was quick to correct (or criticize). They might also tell you that he was very protective. An injustice against his soldiers could not survive his wrath.

First Sergeant Reeder entered the service of the United States Army during the Vietnam War and exited, disabled and retired, after Desert Storm. He has spent his days since enjoying the place called home that the rest of us take for granted. The place which, in a lifetime of service, he almost never got to see. He has rekindled family relationships with people he had not seen in years. He has a great deal of fight left in him, but the enemy was taking on a different form: the largemouth bass, the crappie, the deer.

In early 2009, First Sergeant Paul Reeder was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer (SCLC), a particularly bad and almost always fatal form of cancer. A lifetime heavy smoker, some might think he deserved this end. Any cost benefit analysis would probably fail, with treatment in the 100s of thousands of dollars and success rates in the mid single digits.

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I have gained a number of things from my grandfather. I have his hair which, now in my mid-30s, still shows signs of neither receding nor graying. I have his skin tone which seems to have enhanced protection against the more harmful effects of the sun. I have wonderful health.

But the greatest thing my grandfather gave is not something in my genetic makeup. It is a lifelong series of choices my grandfather made, most before I was even born.

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I am an environmentalist. I am. I primarily use two vehicles to go to work. One gets seventy miles per gallon. The other is a bicycle. Sometimes I walk to the market. Most of the lights in my house are fluorescent. My television rarely gets turned on; I read instead.

I am a *conservative * environmentalist. To me, that means that I would rather convince people that we should all do
our part to take care of the environment. That means that I try to be a good example, not just a good debater.

When coworkers bring rollerblades to work so we can blade to lunch, I feel good. When people I know buy more fuel efficient vehicles, I hope that my example has helped them see the light. When people ask to peruse my bus schedule book in the hopes that they too could bus/bike in their commute, I know that I am doing well.

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