JIMMY STEWART reads a Poem about his dog ‘Beau’ to a visibly moved Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show in 1981.
Just beautiful.
— Michael Warburton (@MichaelWarbur17) November 28, 2023
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It is my sincere desire to provide readers of this site with the best unbiased information available, and a forum where it can be discussed openly, as our Founders intended. But it is not easy nor inexpensive to do so, especially when those who wish to prevent us from making the truth known, attack us without mercy on all fronts on a daily basis. So each time you visit the site, I would ask that you consider the value that you receive and have received from The Burning Platform and the community of which you are a vital part. I can't do it all alone, and I need your help and support to keep it alive. Please consider contributing an amount commensurate to the value that you receive from this site and community, or even by becoming a sustaining supporter through periodic contributions. [Burning Platform LLC - PO Box 1520 Kulpsville, PA 19443] or Paypal
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Now all I want to do is leave work and go home and hug my Dog.
He’s pretty big, and I believe he was two years old when We rescued Him.
That was nine years ago, and Time is short.
Boy do I miss those guys. In plaintive moments I’ll You Tube favorite old episodes. Ed Ames and his hatchet toss to the crotch, George Gobels crashing the party with Bob Hope and Dean Martin, the hilarious Thanksgiving dinner conversation between Doc and Johnny, Don Rickels anytime. You can chart the decline of America from that era to the pack of dull witted buffoons who replaced them.
Burt Reynolds was always an entertaining guest, as well.
I watched the Ed Ames and Thanksgiving clips just last week. Carson and the Tonight show were truly ad lib comedy at its finest. The show Gobels crashed was probably one of the funniest ever.
CC, TN,
I was in the hospital on hill 327 in Da Nang. Two officers and a short man in brand new utilities with no rank insignia came in the Quonset hut going from bed to bed talking to the wounded, and giving out Purple hearts.
When the trio got to me the colonel who had a clipboard introduced himself and a major who held a small cardboard box, then the shortest one with no rank insignia interrupted the colonel and said to me:
“What happened son”?
So I told him what happened, then he asked me where I was from, and I told him. Then he said:
“Do you know who I am”?
I said with gusto: “Sure, Your Lonesome George Gobel, seen you on TV dozens of times”!
I smiled wide and so did he as did the other two officers. We talked for a few more minutes. The colonel checked the clipboard he was carrying, said something to the major, and the major pulled out the black with the gold trim container and handed it to Lonesome George Gobel who presented it to me. Lonesome George made a few quips that were funny…as we all chuckled…but I can’t remember what he said…then Lonesome George shook my hand a long time with both his hands.
Then they moved on to the next bed.
My favorite TV bit by the short Lonesome George was when he would be standing next to a much taller woman who was talking and who had large breasts (remember those pointed bras back in the day) about level with his head (both were almost as big as his head)…and he would start to ever so slightly turn his deadpanned face towards the big boobs and steal nervous but excited glances through his peripheral vision…the look on his face being priceless.
This was the same year I met Lonesome George.
Sure don’t make them Jimmy any more. I can’t imagine him compromising his principles to make a movie in todays world.
He did radio as well, had a western show called “The Six Shooter” that was about a reformed gunfighter. Chesterfield cigarettes wanted to sponsor it, and he refused. So, it only lasted one year.
I’ve buried a few and everyone broke my heart.
yep…
Dogs are God’s reminder of what unconditional love looks like. We get hundreds of days (and sometimes more) with such pure joy. But there’s always that one day of pure unadulterated misery…
I have lived in my woods for close to 40 years. I have a whole garden of four footed family members.
I watched that a long time ago, was deeply moved by it. Then I remembered Stewart was a skilled experienced actor and exchanged my deep feeling to deep respect for his ability in his trade. It was better before I thought about it.
Jimmy Stewart was mentally damaged by his war service.
Apparently his conscience had a problem with carpet bombing civilians with explosive and incendiary munitions.
A plane and its pilot – a true story
This 1967 true story is of an experience by a young 12 year old lad in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. It is about the vivid memory of a privately rebuilt P-51 from WWII and its famous owner/pilot.
In the morning sun, I could not believe my eyes. There, in our little airport, sat a majestic P-51. They said it had flown in during the night from some U.S. Airport, on its way to an air show. The pilot had been tired, so he just happened to choose Kingston for his stop over. It was to take to the air very soon. I marveled at the size of the plane, dwarfing the Pipers and Canucks tied down by her. It was much larger than in the movies. She glistened in the sun like a bulwark of security from days gone by.
The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into the pilot’s lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It looked like it might have been combed, say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased and worn – it smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (“Expo-67 Air Show”) then walked across the tarmac.
After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check, the tall, lanky man returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he “flashed the old bird up, just to be safe.” Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use — “If you see a fire, point, then pull this lever!”, he said. (I later became a firefighter, but that’s another story.) The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another, and yet another barked — I stepped back with the others. In moments the Packard -built Merlin engine came to life with a thunderous roar. Blue flames knifed from her manifolds with an arrogant snarl. I looked at the others’ faces; there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We did.
Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre-flight run-up. He’d taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went quiet for several seconds. We ran to the second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half way down 19.
Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before. Like a furious hell spawn set loose — something mighty this way was coming. “Listen to that thing!” said the controller.
In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. It’s tail was already off the runway and it was moving faster than anything I’d ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop tips were supersonic. We clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellishly fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze. We stood for a few moments, in stunned silence, trying to digest what we’d just seen.
The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. “Kingston tower calling Mustang?” He looked back to us as he waited for an acknowledgment. The radio crackled, “Go ahead, Kingston.” “Roger, Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low level pass.” I stood in shock because the controller had just, more or less, asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show! The controller looked at us. “Well, What?” He asked. “I can’t let that guy go without asking. I couldn’t forgive myself!”
The radio crackled once again, “Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, east to west, across the field?” “Roger, Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west pass.” “Roger, Kingston, I’m coming out of 3,000 feet, stand by.” We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against positive G’s and gravity. Her wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic. The burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and tearing the air. At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting. Imagine. A salute! I felt like laughing; I felt like crying; she glistened; she screamed; the building shook; my heart pounded. Then the old pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds and indelibly into my memory.
I’ve never wanted to be an American more than on that day! It was a time when many nations in the world looked to America as their big brother. A steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not unlike the old American pilot who’d just flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best.
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/plane-its-pilot-true-story-from-few-years-ago-george-navarini
Joe De Bona and Jimmy Stewart with Thunderbird, their P-51C Mustang racer, April 1949. Placed on the ramp in front of the airplane is equipment that has been removed or replaced. Note the four “cuffed” Hamilton Standard propeller blades along the right side of the photograph. They have been replaced with un-cuffed and polished Hamilton Standard blades. (Allan Grant/LIFE Magazine)
My dog just licks his balls
after reading the writing on the walls.
Jimmy was no slouch despite his outward demeanor.
After enlisting, Stewart made no new commercial films, although he remained under contract to MGM. His public appearances were limited to engagements for the Army Air Forces.[114] The Air Corps scheduled him on network radio with Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, and on the radio program We Hold These Truths, a celebration of the United States Bill of Rights, which was broadcast a week after the attack on Pearl Harbor.[116] Stewart also appeared in a First Motion Picture Unit short film, Winning Your Wings, to help recruit airmen. Nominated for an Academy Award for Best Documentary in 1942, it appeared in movie theaters nationwide beginning in late May 1942 and resulted in 150,000 new recruits.[117]
Stewart was concerned that his celebrity status would relegate him to duties behind the lines.[116] After spending over a year training pilots at Kirtland Army Airfield in Albuquerque, New Mexico,[118] he appealed to his commander and in November 1943 was sent to England as part of the 445th Bombardment Group to fly B-24 Liberators. He was based initially at RAF Tibenham, before moving to RAF Old Buckenham.[119]
A military officer pinning an award to Stewart’s decorated military jacket, among other uniformed soldiers
Colonel Stewart receiving the Croix de Guerre with Palm in 1944
Stewart was promoted to major following a mission to Ludwigshafen, Germany, on January 7, 1944.[120][b] He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for actions as deputy commander of the 2nd Bombardment Wing,[122] the French Croix de Guerre with palm, and the Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters.[123] Stewart was promoted to full colonel on March 29, 1945,[124] becoming one of the few Americans to ever rise from private to colonel in only four years.[125] At the beginning of June 1945, Stewart was the presiding officer of the court martial of a pilot and navigator who accidentally bombed Zürich, Switzerland.[126]
Stewart returned to the United States in early fall 1945.[127] He continued to play a role in reserve of the Army Air Forces after the war[128] and was also one of the 12 founders of the Air Force Association in October 1945.[129] Stewart would eventually transfer to the reserves of the United States Air Force after the Army Air Forces split from the Army in 1947. During active-duty periods, he served with the Strategic Air Command and completed transition training as a pilot on the B-47 and B-52.[130]
Stewart was first nominated for promotion to brigadier general in February 1957; however, his promotion was initially opposed by Senator Margaret Chase Smith.[130] At the time of the nomination, the Washington Daily News noted: “He trains actively with the Reserve every year. He’s had 18 hours as first pilot of a B-52.”[131] On July 23, 1959, Stewart was promoted to brigadier general, becoming the highest-ranking actor in American military history.[132] During the Vietnam War, he flew as a non-duty observer in a B-52 on an Arc Light bombing mission in February 1966.[133] He served for 27 years, officially retiring from the Air Force on May 31, 1968, when he reached the mandatory retirement age of 60.[134] Upon his retirement, he was awarded the United States Air Force Distinguished Service Medal.[135] Stewart rarely spoke about his wartime service
My old lab almost made it to 16.
Buried her in the backyard in a spot where its sunny in the Winter and shady in the Summer.
Not a day goes by I dont miss her.
Very touching poem from the last of the great actors.
Good question…
Where have you gone, Jimmy?
Oh I do love Jimmy! Just watched “How the West Was Won” last night (horrible distortion taking a Cinerama movie to TV), saw “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington “ last week. Needed the hankies for many reasons…
God bless ya, Jimmy.
I used to show Mr. Smith to my government classes years ago. Capra did an awesome job showing the basic ins and outs of the Senate, and it was great instructional movie. I always told the kids that the movie was black and white (with the accompanying groans.) I also told each class that I would buy anyone a coke if they could genuinely explain why they didn’t like the movie. In ten years, the only soda I ever bought was for me.