In honor of Veteran's Day today, here's a little thing I wrote in September 2007, about an experience Papa and I had before the premier of Ken Burns' documentary The War.
***
We drove down to Luverne in the late afternoon to meet up with dear friends
and their four children. When we arrived, the kids were checking out the vintage
cars parked in front of the courthouse, where locals were scheduled to speak
before a parade to the Palace Theater where the showing would be. Their
youngest wondered how the convertible owners could get the hoods on fast enough
should rain appear, as the gears were manual. The sky overhead misted with
gray clouds and threatened to test his theory.
We went to dinner at the Pizza Ranch two doors down from the
newly renovated Palace. Our meal was a quiet, happy time—our friends
asked their kids to eat salad along with their pizza, a teenage waiter brought us
fried chicken since the buffet was out, we laughed and caught up on news since
the last time we had visited—until the evening news, broadcast on a largely
ignored big screen in the middle of the restaurant, turned to a segment on Ken
Burns’ visit to Luverne and the film’s premiere. All of a sudden the
conversations stilled and everyone turned to watch. But it was only a moment,
and the sound was low, and we soon resumed our conversations and our laughter.
The rain came during dinner—we watched it evolve from
glistening sheets to half-hearted pitter-patter—and by the time we emerged,
mints in mouth, the sun was trying to break through the still ubiquitous
clouds. We walked back to the courthouse to find the presentation had been
cancelled (and the cars with their hoods up), and we returned to the Palace,
fearful the “red carpet” processional would be cancelled too. That would be our big
moment, the chance to see Ken Burns for a fleeting moment. The kids and I
strategized as to how to get Mr. Burns’ autograph for my long-distant
sister—perhaps the youngest daughter could trip in front of him and after he
asked what he could do—because he would be unfailingly polite—she would smile
winsomely and whip out the little pad and pen.We giggled at our plans.
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| Some great kids and I, excitedly waiting. |
People milled here and there, as forties era music played
over loudspeakers. Most were dressed casually; the American Legion members who
had the honor of holding the flags at the entrance of the theater tried to
figure out what order to be in as onlookers tried to figure out the best place
to stand. I saw a man with a World War II veteran hat on, standing nearby.
I love meeting veterans, especially ones who've lived long and seen much, whose young adult-hoods were consumed by sacrifices I, now a young adult, can't even begin to comprehend. So I approached the man with the hat and thanked him for his service. He smiled and said,
“Thank you for thanking me.” I said something, protesting politely, about he
was the one who should be thanked, and his face grew serious and he looked me
close, and said, “Young lady, there’s only one thing you should remember. Four
hundred and seven thousand boys just like me went to war, and they never came
home. It is because of what they gave that we can live the way we do.”
His eyes were misty.
The man told me his name—Elwood, from Chandler, Minnesota.
He served as a junior officer in the Navy —“not anything real important”—in the
south Pacific, and he served on a ship for over 700 consecutive days. No leave.
“It was one month shy of two years,” he said. His daughter came up and he
showed me her shirt—on the front was his name and a picture of his 21-year-old
self in Navy whites. On the back was the ship on which he sailed and the places
he landed, the last being Okinawa. Reverently, he told me how they landed there on Easter morning, 1945.
He spoke of how little young people know about the war and
about the world generally. Not disparagingly, but sadly. “They must learn about
what happened,” he said. Not to honor him, but to remember and understand the
sacrifice of all the young men who never came home.
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| One of many memorials we saw. |
What a terrible burden it is, to live proud of the service
you gave, and every once in a while to be honored for that
service, but to know that you are honored because you lived, and loved and
worked, and so many others—your friends, your neighbors, your cousins and
brothers—never left the far-away places of war. They never reaped earthly joys of cherishing wife and children, friends and neighbors. They never experienced the daily, simple toil of farming on land long held by kinsmen, of growing old and going out for cups of coffee to commiserate about the price of soybeans. They never came home.
As I listened to Elwood, I blinked to stop my sudden tears and my eyes caught the top of
the Hotel Manitou, one built by dedicated hands early in the twentieth century. I thought, “We live such comfortable, leisurely lives, without even
thinking of it.” Standing on a dusky street, smelling the
wet pavement, watching the excitement of people who have lived comfortably because of others' service—these are priceless times of privilege that we take for granted. Elwood's story reminded me, shocked me really, of the quotidian things that those boys that never came
home relinquished freely. Their sacrifice is both awesome and terrible.
And their sacrifice enables us, the living, to laugh over pizza, to debate over rainy weather predictions, to gather together for civic events with loved ones. Ironically, their awful sacrifice often means we forget them as we move along, ahead. We even forget the ones who did come home, like Elwood. But we shouldn't, and we can't. It is because of what our veterans gave that we can live the way we do. And the living veterans deserve our honor and our thanks, just as we remember their brothers buried far away, for what they have given us.
***
We ended up seeing the premiere and Ken Burns, which was a great experience. But I am more grateful that I met Elwood that day, who reminded me then, and today, to whom I and my children, and all Americans, owe immeasurable thanks.
