The year was 1992...out on a date...one of many...the usual dinner and a movie at her place (VHS was all the rage about 20 years ago) and we picked up a Bruce Willis movie, "In Country." Now, I've always liked Bruce Willis but it was the first time he ever made me cry. This simple story of a Vietnam vet, about 17 years after his return to "The World," and the effects of the war on himself, his friends, family and entire rural Kentucky community, was a watershed moment in my own post service life of almost 25 years.
Shortly after that night, the mortgage company for which I worked conducted a sales contest...winner to receive a round-trip flight anywhere in the country and $500 in cash for expenses. I won. I decided to go to Washington D. C. and see "The Wall."
My visit to the memorial was pretty amazing. Looking back at the photos I shot and those that others graciously took of me, of me, I'm amazed at how much younger I was just a little while ago...thinner, taller and with more hair. But I digress.
It was a pretty dismal day...low grey clouds overhead, persistent drizzle, standing water on the ground...a little cool. As I got closer I passed other landmarks, statues, memorials and tourists. Not many obvious veterans but I'm sure they were there.
Then...there it was. A grassy knoll morphed into a long, low line of granite ambushed me, stretching impossibly long into the distance. I was immediately struck by the scope and simplicity of the design...something I had heard about, read about, but found myself still underprepared for the sight. Coincidentally, at that exact moment the mist let up clearing my line of sight and brightening the scene just a little.
Slowly I started down the descending path, watching the level of the granite slabs rise at my side and feeling the names scribed on the wall seep into my consciousness. I hugged the wall, sidestepping flowers and other artifacts and mementos left behind on the low berm, detouring around visitors standing nose to stone, lost in their own thoughts, reflections and heartache.
A specific self set task was to find a few names I knew would be there. Clifford, a high school friend killed in his second tour; Robert, a college roommate shot down while piloting a chopper. George, a shipmate, who died from an on board accident while in the combat zone. Dale, a former shipmate sent back for a second tour only to die in a swift boat.
I had help. There was a wonderful person stationed at the wall with the big book of names and locations. Today that information is available from countless sources but, 20 years ago you needed the book. She found the panels and lines marking the names I was after, helped me get the paper and charcoal I needed to do the rubbings, and cut me loose to do my thing.
The mist, which was still abated, had served to moisten the surface of the black marble enabling stark reflections from the wall. I could see myself there in great detail. It chilled me to the bone to think that I could have been in/on that wall in any way...then again, why not? I did come home...more than 58,000 sons, daughters, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts did not.
At some point I must have sunk down on the berm, lost in my own thoughts for just a few minutes. About two hours later I felt a hand on my shoulder as the Park Service worker who assisted me with the names, was rousting me back to the present. She was worried about me, sitting there, head down, silently sobbing, and definitely someplace else in my mind.
With a pull, she got me to my feet and spent I don't know how much time walking me back and forth, talking, soothing, bringing me back, all the while lugging that 20 pound volume in her other hand. She was an angel.
Thinking of her, I have often wondered how she could do that job day in, day out, the people she would meet, the stories she had to hear, the depth of pain, sorrow, grief and devastation she must witness, and the depths of compassion she had to have to survive and thrive in that position. Yes, I think of her often and thank her from the bottom of my heart.
My visit ended after about four hours. As I walked away from the memorial, as if on cue, the mist returned.
Next time...the game.
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