He was not a close childhood friend, but he was always in my class from first grade to fifth. A blond-headed boy with a stutter.
One day in the late 1950s I was riding my bicycle past his home when he called out to me in recognition. I peddled into the driveway. He and his siblings had a brand new toy, a slip and slide.
You fill this plastic thing with water and slide along it.
We all had a great time on this hot summer day.
To my memory, except for the fact he was a classmate in grammar school, we seldomly directly associated with each other before or after that day. But the good time we had stuck in my memory.
Decades later, I looked up his name on the internet. And I’ll tell you why. Kind of nostalgia. Also, I had just been diagnosed with an incurable but somewhat treatable form of cancer. I was 58 then. The prognosis was unclear, but gloomy. Basically some die within five years, others last much longer. I’m lasting much longer. Doing fine after 16 years from diagnosis. But back in those dark days right after diagnosis and in the midst of chemotherapy, I felt like a gonner. I wanted to reach back to my childhood.
I remembered that hot summer day in the San Joaquin Valley of California. I remember how happy we little kids were to slip along on the cool water from the garden hose. We were probably fairly heat tolerant. Only affluent folks had air conditioning. We were not in that class. I’m guessing that by the street my classmate lived on and the modest house, one might judge he was from a poor family of the lower working class. But looks can be deceiving or class distinction nonexistent. With some exceptions all of my classmates simply represented ordinary small-town working folks that made up the world I grew up in.
My family moved to another town, maybe not long after that summer day.
But, like I say, I was trying to go back in time, thinking I had not much of a future, what with the cancer diagnosis.
Through the magic of the still relatively new internet, I instantly found my classmate’s name. And where was he now?
Killed in Vietnam.
I was shocked, saddened, and at the same time given a dose of reality. Despite my self pity over my health problem, I was (still am) the survivor, the fortunate one.
If you were to see a photo of my late classmate, you would think: the all-American boy or young man, because he was.
He was a U.S. Marine private, killed in battle two months after arriving in Vietnam. He was only 20 years old.
The politics of the Vietnam War can be debated forever. But that is not important to me in writing this. I don’t know why my classmate chose to join the Marines, maybe something to do with his own family history. I’m assuming he joined, rather than being drafted. Some Marines were drafted. I know. When I joined the Army Uncle Sam had lost so many Marines in Vietnam that draftees were seated on folding chairs, with a sergeant walking down the line and declaring every other one to go to Marine boot camp.
I always feel obligated to mention that I was blessed to be sent to Germany where peace reigned, and where although we fired weapons, no one fired back.
And still, I did not fully appreciate my good fortune back then.
But since reading of my classmate’s untimely death, I do.
And that’s my memorium this Memorial Day weekend, 2023.
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I omitted the name of our fallen hero out of respect for him and his family. I probably could have left out the reference to his stutter, but I just wanted to somehow form a word picture of a humble yet proud young man who followed Uncle Sam’s orders. Despite how things turned out and history by hindsight, I recall that at the time, initially, that is, the general consensus was we were fighting for the right cause. Those who are sent to fight that “right cause” don’t have the luxury to debate it.