Empty Arms

I saw my grandfather's WWI Draft Card and marveled. So many American soldiers died in the trenches of Europe.
My father served on Guam and survived during WWII, but so many he knew did not.
This day is set apart for them.
During the Vietnam era, multitudes of my generation died.
This day honors their memory.
Their names are etched on The Wall and in their families hearts.

Friends' children have served in the global war on terror in all its forms and the toll is far too high. They have buddies who have died in random disasters, some killed just as their vehicle moved down the road. My friend's child lived and his buddy in the same vehicle died. He'll never forget.Neither should we...ever.

Memorial Day honors and recognizes soldiers' supreme sacrifice. The family's sacrifice, too.It's the slain soldiers' day; while any day is a good day to remember them, today's the official day set aside just for this purpose..

Memorial Day, once called Decoration Day, memorializes those who, in wars since the Civil War, sacrificed their lives in service to their country.

Families heard the knock on the door, received the telegram, heard the sad message on the other end of the phone. They listened to a 21 gun salute and placed their empty arms around a folded American flag and a memory.

The Echoes of Vietnam

        When Louis Armstrong sings It's a Wonderful World, I think about the movie Good Morning,Vietnam, starring Robin Williams. The montage during that part of the soundtrack was filmed from a helicopter as it surveyed the rice fields, the rivers, the workers. Also panned and zoomed were the soldiers. I cried. Even to this day, and as much as I love that song, my brain shifts to Vietnam.
         Dear friend Betty Dale experienced Vietnam through her husband Bill, a graduate of Texas A&M University. Immediately commissioned upon graduation, he spent at least two years in Vietnam. My former brother-in-law served as a helicopter gunner, pulling the wounded inside while shooting a machine gun.The ROTC graduates from Henderson were second lieutenants and on a troop plane to the rice patties before the ink was dry on their diplomas. For the years I was at Henderson, part of the newspaper reading routine in the Student Union was the list of those who died in service to their country. Too often, one or more of our Reddies' names and high school classmates' names appeared and solemnity blanketed the otherwise chatty room.
        This was the time when US Army Reserve units were full to capacity. Upon graduation, young men were subject to the draft unless they were already in an enlisted capacity. Being drafted often meant a death sentence, shipped to the front lines with little or no basic training. It was a horrible era all around. Like their fellow soldiers from previous wars, many did not talk about the full impact of the battles, of their time "in country."
        Refugees from S.Vietnam reached freedom by death-defying means. The children of these family heroes who escaped are grown with children of their own. They are remarkable young adults and I know they have feelings for their homeland that resound in sad though loving memory.
         And now, our president is in Vietnam, looking to the future and how their government and ours can cooperate. I'm sure it's a much needed strategic move. Their location, geographic position against N Korea and China can help the world. The arms embargo  has been lifted after 70 years.
      It's time to move on, look forward. But, I  agree with editorial writer Colbert King of the Washington Post: "Go to Ho Chi Minh City...exchange pleasantries... But dammit, don't forget what got us to this place. More than 47,000 Americans died in that horrible war, 61% were 21 or younger..."
       While I'm certain I will not forget, the morning newspaper did give me pause. I look at photographs and remember an era that is forever a part of our collective American experience.

Guilty Tears

I opened the door. I stared into the watery, red-rimmed eyes of a friend and sister. She walked in and sat down on the end of my single bed, pushed herself back and propped against the concrete block wall, feet stretched in front of her. I closed the door and joined her there.

            “What is it?”

            “They’re gonna kick me out.” I understood her words between quiet sobs.

            “Who? What do you mean?” I handed her a box of Kleenex.

            “I don’t know.” Silent tears streamed, adding blotches to blotches.

            “I missed a period.”

Pre-marital sex was an extra-curricular activity for many college couples. I was not oblivious, but during the 1960’s, no one ever talked about it, especially with someone who was not likely to be participating. It'd be like Riz confiding in Sandy in "Grease." Not that she was really like Rizzo, but I was closely akin to Sandy, minus Danny.

            “Have you told anyone? Him?”

            “I told him and he’s mad.”

 I was not surprised. She did what he wanted or he’d be mad and all hell would break loose. We’d all told her she was better than that and to dump him.

            He was a younger hunk of a guy with dark hair, a baby face, football player shoulders, basketball player height, and the object of her affection since she sighted him when he first arrived on campus. She’d gone after him and who could resist her charm and personality. She was a fun person, always ready for a good time. A quick and quirky smile, a mouth full of braces, a short haircut, and dance moves to be envied, she radiated sunshine anywhere she walked.

            The couple would break up frequently and stir up all kinds of stink in the Student Union. He was a member of a popular fraternity and anyone around them watched their courtship play out at full volume. Most of their break ups were the result of a battle of wills. After a week apart, he’d pitch rocks at her dorm window and beg her for another chance. The roller coaster was part of their culture.

            “What if y’all get married?”

            “He said he didn’t want to marry me. Not now."

            “You’ve got to tell your family. They’ll help you,” I projected my values onto her as it was all I knew to do. I could find no words.

            “If anyone finds out, I’ll be out of school, out of the sorority, and disowned.”

I figured that was probably true on all counts, because it was the threat that was held over my head all my dating years. But what did I really know. I couldn’t imagine this situation happening to a friend, a sister in my pledge class. Her confiding in me was astounding. I loved her, but we were not of the same ilk. Maybe I was the only one on the floor that night. Did she think I’d have some cure, some magic answer? I wasn’t that smart and I was tongue tied when confronted with this situation.

            “He’s making arrangements.”

            “What?" I said like a fool. She just looked at me.

            “There’s no other way. His frat brothers gave him names and he’ll set it up and take me.”

            “Don’t do this.” My head was spinning. Who else had done this while I lived in my ivory tower with blinders on? These frat guys knew people who knew people.

            “I’ll be fine. Just don’t tell anyone. Promise.”

            She returned to her dorm room down the hall. I sat silent. I never said a word to anyone.

            Burdened with her information for the next several weeks, I kept watching her, looking for any sign that she needed my help. I saw nothing. In fact, the couple seemed happier than ever.

            That summer I took a few extra courses, enjoyed morning classes and afternoon river sunbathing. Word came that my friend, my evening visitor, was in the hospital. That weekend I went home and on Sunday, drove to her hometown and pulled into a parking space at the hospital. The information desk worker gave me her room number and I boarded the elevator.

            The ding sounded and the door slid open. I looked left and right, noted the room sequence, and walked down the hallway to her room, making sure I had a big smile for her.

Her door stood open, I noted with pleasure, like she was expecting visitors. I walked right into her room ready for a cheerful conversation. Her room was empty. Maybe she’s having tests, I surmised. Or, perhaps, they’ve moved her to a different room.

            A nurse approached with linens folded over her arm and said, “May I help you?”

            “I’m looking for my friend.”

            “Who is that?”

            “Sharon Shelby.”

            “Oh, my dear,” she said, her arm extending to me."She died earlier today. We are cleaning this room. I’m so sorry.”

            I backed away into the hallway and felt the first sting of guilty tears.

It was August 3, 1969. She’d just turned twenty-one.

Sometimes, Reality Crept In

             During a night long past when flames destroyed the main building of the Methodist college in Arkadelphia, Arkansas, students and townspeople congregated, affirmed their desire to continue. From that singular commitment in 1914, streams of like-minded young people have whispered a vow to uphold the spirit and tradition of the 1890 Henderson College.

Lush foliage and a plush carpet of greenspace amid planned paths and scattered benches suggest a sanctuary, a haven, a home. A stream meanders through campus, separating the academic campus from the residential and athletic spaces. Spanned by concrete and an iron railed bridge, a narrow, rocky gully with its trickling water forms what some call “the ravine.” The lasting beauty of the holly lingers season into season, honoring heritage and promising a future. Under the stalwart stands of pine, a family of red brick buildings wraps arms around those who shape the decades.

            Some college campuses in the mid-1960’s mirrored the nation’s angst. Immersed in a throwback culture, however, students on this idyllic campus were embraced by the college and the community; together, they were able to keep the world’s troubles at bay, at least for a few more years.

            Our years at Henderson concluded the decade with vibrant homecoming corsages, chaperoned formal dances, military events, fraternity parties, and beach blanket bingo at the Ouachita River. This college cocooned its students, guarded them with omnipotent deans and omniscient dorm mothers. Students’ daylight hours swelled with classes and requisite student union hours. At the various tables in the Student Union, collegians snacked, smoked, and read letters from home. Newspapers, passed table to table, detailed Vietnam politics, casualties, and the latest betting line at Oaklawn. Background music came from the juke box, fueled by quarter after quarter.

By nine in the evening, students had vacated the library and the campus. Doors throughout the dorms were locked. A rare panty raid or calls from a spurned lover might startle the night. The dorms were quiet. The worst that could happen didn’t.

            A caucus of friends opened the door at any knock. That is why I was caught by surprise one late Spring evening. My roommate was away and I heard a knock at my door. When I opened it, a teary-eyed friend who had turned the corner into adulthood walked in.   (to be continued...)