Remembering Elwood

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.

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.

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.