“Death belongs to God alone.
By what right do men touch
that unknown thing?”
Victor Hugo – Les Miserables
It was Friday, May 8; the week almost
over.
Not that it mattered – in that setting one
day was pretty much like any other…unpredictable and potentially dangerous.
What really mattered was half the year was
nearly gone, and I could soon say, with hopeful optimism, that I was ‘short’…crossing
the crest of the hill…the ‘gravity of time and heart’ bringing me from the
backside of Southeast Asia and slingshoting me toward the familiar
constellation of my home planet where the consistent orbit of loved ones
awaited. Six months to go…a meaningful marker.
‘Short’ is a military expression meaning
one is approaching the end of their tour in theatre of conflict (read GOING
HOME!!). Six months is NOT really short,
unless you are a ‘…glass half full…’ kind of person – which little doubt I was
then and am now. In those days, unlike
in today’s military, unless one volunteered for a second tour in the war, it
was “…one and done…”
It was Friday, May 8; the week almost
over.
It wasn’t like you took the weekend off to
recharge for the next five (5) day cycle…it wasn’t like you slept a little
longer on Saturday morning…it wasn’t like Sunday, church, lunch and a ball game
of some sort. Friday there? It was the day before Saturday…the day before
Sunday…the day before…
The mail didn’t come every day, but most
Fridays it did…a day to look forward to.
Mail call…one of the little things that made Vietnam tolerable, even for
those of us who were fortunate to have an assignment not requiring a daily dose
of ‘jungle risk’ – those ‘dark days’ when even the brightest sun did not ease
the sense of blackness and death. Even
so, then as now…American military in a foreign and hostile environment, safety…a
relative term.
As usual, there were newspapers with the
mail. They came two to three days late
because they were shipped half way around the world – no instant access via
email or the web…no telephone with which to call home. I have never really paid
much attention to the papers other than the headlines and story titles. Occasionally I read the stories, but usually
not. This day was different…this day was
bone chillingly different…
Ah,
Muskoka – truly God’s country
It had been a great 30-day ‘leave’ before
shipping out to the war. It was August,
and while I wouldn’t head to that tiny country in Southeast Asia for another 60
days or so, our family did what we always had done in that special month of the
year…we were together.
In Muskoka on our yearly pilgrimage, we
swam, fished, hiked, canoed, sandwiched between morning breakfasts and dinner
where we recounted the day. It was a place where we brought our friends…a place
where we read the scripture…a place where we, in our innocence touched the face
of God every day…every moment…with every breath on those chilly mornings and
warm August days in the isolated tree filled region of Central Ontario. When things seem routine in youth, it takes
the tincture of time to sometimes appreciate that what seemed so normal is
actually extremely special…meaningful…life affirming…protective.
Like the warmth of the womb – the only
environment the growing baby knows – this was NOT the norm of life. It would take time to appreciate what wonder
the Almighty God had wrought in bringing us to this place with a yearly
regularity as certain as the rhythmic beating of our hearts. That was Muskoka for us…no that is not
exactly correct, for while we wouldn’t fully appreciate it until later
years…Muskoka was as much a part of us as the fingers on our hands, the toes on
our feet – not always noticed, but ALWAYS in the background of our lives. For our family, it simply ‘was’…..
This
time it was different…
Unlike other years, however, as the month
passed, we all became a little tenser rather than relaxed and refreshed. At first we didn’t talk about it, but as the
time moved forward, we all knew it might be the last time we would be together
as a family. We all knew as surely as
Odysseus found himself at risk by the call of the sirens, our lives might forever
change. We all hoped, that as he…my ears
would be plugged with wax…my body tied to the mast of the ship…I would escape
the dangers of the swirling waters of that tiny country across the sea. We all hoped, unlike the myth of the Odyssey,
God would keep his hand on my life and in the words of Jean Valjean, “…bring
him home…”
As the month ended we were all a bit
awkward with one another…our love not so, but ‘the’ conversation of the future
in this year different than that of others.
We made ourselves busy. Nancy was
returning to school and me to my ‘pre-shipping out’ assignment. We decided to drive back to the States
together. It was a wonderful trip. We stopped for lunch at Niagara Falls, then
drove the rest of the way to Ohio. It is
hard to express how meaningful the time with her was. We began the trip as brother and sister; we
ended the trip deep and rich friends. It
was one of those seminal moments. We
talked about everything…everything, with the open frankness and safety that
comes only from a place of total trust and love. I was afraid of what was coming. I had done (I thought) well in hiding it with
the family – not so with her.
And so it was she returned to school, and
within two months, I descended the stairs of a plane into the humid…dark of
night…dankly oppressive air of Ton Son Nhat airbase in the Republic of South
Vietnam. A couple of hundred of us in
clean jungle fatigues were met by a similar number of young men in not so clean
jungle fatigues, waiting to get on that plane, escaping the land if not the
trauma, of their time “…in country…”
There wasn’t one of us arriving that did not envy those boys waiting to
get on that plane!
The
mail…
It was Friday, May 8; the week almost
over.
The mists of time have taken what I might
have gotten in the mail that day, but not the headlines in the paper dated
Tuesday, May 5, 1970: “Four Dead in Kent
State shooting!” While not much else is
clear about that day – this is. I was in
the middle of a year as part of a war waged in South Vietnam, and at least this
day, I was safe. My sister, seven or
eight months earlier, following our drive home, had returned to college: It was
Kent State!
It was one of those moments of surreal
cognitive dissonance that happens when one comes upon, or is thrust into a
situation that is both foreign and familiar at the same moment. Like maybe running into an old high school
classmate in some far flung part of the country or world. You know where you are, but ‘they’ don’t
belong in that mental space…it takes a bit of time to recalibrate.
There had been protests against the war at
the university. They had begun several
days earlier with student war protesters and rabble-rousers vandalizing and
confronting the police with an ever-escalating hostility. On the third day, the governor brought in the
National Guard to help stabilize and protect the campus. What caused the young men in the Guard to
open fire is unclear, but dozens of live rounds in a brief few seconds flew out
if the barrels of their weapons, leavin a few students wounded and four
dead…four dead! Was one of them Nancy?
In those days there was no way to find out
what had happened or to whom. The only
option to write home to find out, and so I did.
It was a brief letter to my parents urgently asking about Nancy’s
safety. While all of this was tragic, my
only concern was her. The mail? Generally three days out, another three days
back.
It was Friday, May 15; the week was almost
over.
That day, I got two letters from home. One from my parents indicating Nancy had NOT
been part of the protest and was, as she had relayed to them, safe. I also got a brief, but ‘…breath relieving…’
letter from her saying she had watched the situation unfold, that the shootings
had been completely unexpected. While
there had been violent protests all around the country…most damage being done
by the protestors…opening fire on unarmed students was unprecedented. I couldn’t see her or talk to her, but
knowing she was safe meant everything.
The
trip home…
Many times over the years, I have reflected
on events with Nance. There is little
doubt, the memory of the headlines and subsequent fear for her safety in the
Kent State affair, are burned deeply into the neurochemistry of my mind.
What I remember the most, however, was the
trip home from the cottage…what I remember most is the ‘next level’ our
relationship had elevated to…what I remember most is how deeply we loved each
other in subsequent years. Life’s events
taught us how fragile life is…how easy it is for what we think to have
permanence, falls into the turbulent currents of time and unexpected
circumstance…slipping away. I think
those years taught us both how precious we were to each other.
She is gone now…rather should I say…she is
no longer ‘in country,’ and yet for me, and I suppose for you, circumstances in
life, whatever they may be provide a richer tapestry when cradled in the care
of those for whom we have loved, and by those who in return loved us.
- ted
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