Veterans Day
When I returned to my car after buying wine at the liquor store, I noticed the open passenger door of a car parked next to mine. Inside sat an elderly man. He was old enough that I imagined it might take him some time to get himself out, so I asked if he wanted help. He said yes.
I put my forearm parallel to his chest, and he locked onto it. I told him I wouldn’t pull because I didn’t want to hurt him, since I didn’t know how fragile he might be and feared pulling his arm out of its socket if I used too much leverage.
He pulled, and I stood firm. He was weaker than I expected, so I ended up pulling him just enough to get him upright. When he was on his feet, he thanked me. That’s when I noticed his black ball cap had “World War II Veteran” embroidered in gold, so I said, “No, thank you, for serving,” in a most perfunctory way.
He thanked me for thanking him. I figured we were done with the thanking, so I marveled, “Wow, there aren’t many of you left.”
That was false; I was mixing up my World Wars. Still, WWII vets can’t be in abundance. I did some quick mental math, thinking that even if he enlisted at the end in 1945, he’d most likely be at least 90 now.
I mentioned that my Uncle Bill was a soldier in the Pacific arena. I told him he wouldn’t discuss it when I asked, thinking he must have witnessed some pretty terrible things, so I didn’t press the issue. His sister told me they sent Uncle Bill to guard the Great Wall in China as a sort of break from battle before returning to what I can only imagine must have felt like the islands of hell—surrounded by endless ocean. It’s hard to fathom.
Uncle Bill, the sweetest man I ever knew. I can’t imagine him holding a weapon. I usually saw him holding tools, either building or fixing something. The best thing he held was the Lifesavers pack, which he offered me every time we rode in his pickup truck when I was a kid.
The old man and I talked for a bit longer, then he took his short, labored steps to the front of the liquor store. I wondered if I’ll still be drinking at his age. I wondered what he prefers to drink. Whiskey, I suppose. I watched until he disappeared through the door, and I wondered why his wife remained in the car, sitting in the driver’s seat.
On my drive home, I thought about the year I turned 18 in 1982, when Reagan reinstated the draft registration in the event of an emergency. I registered at the local library, and I told my father how scared I was. He did his best to calm me.
Whenever I imagined being in combat—then, even now—the same fantasy plays out: I’m a coward, I go AWOL, the military finds me, and I’m imprisoned for desertion, then executed.
I thought about the old man and all the men and women who served. And for the first time, I honestly considered what it all really means. I never really assessed it—never in real terms—until that moment. A bell rang, and I felt shame. The bravery, the sacrifice, the selflessness. Why had I never examined them in a meaningful way until now? Maybe I just didn’t want to think about it. I am now.
There is piece is all heart!