A final salute to Joe Poulin

It was rather ironic that I’d be attending the funeral of an old Army buddy just a few days before Veteran’s Day.
It came as no surprise that Joe Poulin passed away last week. He had been bravely battling cancer for 15 years.
But even then, Joe never lost his sense of humor or his devotion to his family and his country.
A few of us old timers gathered at the funeral home to pay our last respects to Joe. Even though it was a sad occasion, all I could think of were the times that he made us laugh.
Every Army unit should have a Joe Poulin.
He’d show up in a pressed uniform with shined boots and regulation haircut. But if there was a dirty job to be done, whether it was buffing the floors or cutting brush, Joe would volunteer to do it.
Our Army Reserve unit was like a family until it disbanded in 1994, the same year I retired. Like families, we shared everything – including our joys and frustration.
Joe used to drive me nuts at times. I was a platoon sergeant for awhile, and few could play practical jokes better than him. If I got on his nerves, he’d pay me back.
I used to hang my uniform on the outside of my locker at annual training so I could jump into it first thing in the morning.
One morning, I couldn’t figure out why my legs couldn’t go all the way through my pants. I knew they were starched pretty stiff, but this was ridiculous.
Joe had stapled the bottom of my pants.
One weekend, we were at Fort Devens, Mass. I came in rather late after visiting a local watering hole. I tried to hang my jacket in the locker. I thought I was going nuts because I couldn’t find the handle.
Joe had turned the locker around with the door up against the wall.
In addition to his sense of humor, Joe’s sentimental side was also pretty obvious.
He used to play Santa Claus at our annual Christmas party. One year Joe’s wife, Ruth, brought their youngest son to the party after Joe was in disguise.
While other kids were content to greet Old St. Nick, Joe’s son proudly announced “That’s my daddy!”
On the weekend I was promoted to 1st sergeant back in 1989, we put in about a 14-hour day on the rifle ranges. But I was still had enough ambition to suggest a trip to the Wagon Wheel for a frosty cold beer. Joe was also the first one to say “I’m ready.” I think he bought the first round, too.
Altough he preferred to maintain a lot-profile position, Joe was coaxed into an instructor’s role eventually. He took it seriously, even to the point of rehearing his classes late at night in the men’s room, better known as the latrine in Army lingo.
The bottom line is that he did a damn good job at everything he attempted.
When the unit was deactivated in 1994, we had a few informal reunions. But they faded away as we got older and more involved in our own personal and family time.
Four of us who attended Joe’s funeral stood by his casket at attention and rendered him his final salute. And when the services were over, we promised to get together again soon, hopefully for a less somber occasion.
Rest in peace, Joe.
Somebody needed a Santa Claus in Heaven, and I guess it was your turn.