11/11/98 By the Dashboard Lights
by Dave Friedli
Some Gave All
As I travel
across
communities remember those who have served the cause of claiming
peace and keeping peace.
In Sidney, the centerpiece (center-peace?) of the city park is a huge
memorial to all residents who have served in any conflict.
Looming over white granite tablets engraved with hundreds of names
is a flag-pole made from an Interstate exit pole which was damaged
during erection and donated to the city for their memorial. At the
top of the pole is a battle-ship sized flag.
Recently, I stood at the base of that pole at night, reading names
and reflecting on the peace-earners/givers/keepers remembered there.
The only sound was the snapping of the huge flag as a steady breeze
stretched it to full glory, relaxed and then extended it again, not
unlike the sail of a Windjammer ship.
A billboard in Wahoo honors those who served in conflict.
Memorial
Park in the center of
which line The Mall in
It was during my first visit to the nation's capital that I began to
feel the loss of not paying as close attention to my history lessons
in high school. I knew I hadn't gained a true reverence for those
who served our country in battle.
The work
which took me to
site-see, but my brother told me I absolutely could not miss the
when there were no crowds and the Lincoln, Jefferson and Washington
Memorials sparkled brightly thanks to thousands of lumens from
spotlights, I wandered along The Mall, looking for something equally
spectacular.
When I first found the Vietnam Memorial, I felt disappointment.
Jutting out from the ground, I did not ascend steps to some high
point, but instead discovered a sidewalk sloping downward, as if into
some deep, dark crevasse.
The deep, dark, black walls of The Wall did not reflect the light
from tiny spotlights lining the walkway. Instead it swallowed light
like the struggle of war swallows the energy of a nation. I found
myself looking up at names engraved in the black wall, reaching up to
put my fingers into the grooved letters, not unlike a Doubting Thomas
putting fingers into the risen Christ's hands and sides.
I remembered. I believed. And I cried.
In my
subsequent trips to
each time. I continue to be humbled by the experience.
Two years ago, my family walked The Mall on Father's Day. There
were more people at the Vietnam Memorial than I had seen in all my
visits there.
The tradition of gifts, flowers and letters left daily at the
Memorial reaches a peak on holidays. I stooped and read the framed
letter from a young girl which was leaning against the base of The
Wall under her father's name.
In 1970 she was yet unborn, but on June 15, 1997--Father's Day--she
turned 27years old. Her letter described the things her father had
missed while he served, while he was a prisoner of war, and after his
death in captivity: her birth, her first steps, her first day of
school, watching her compete in athletics, listening to her deliver
the valedictorian address in high school, graduating at the top of
her college class, giving her away in marriage, holding the grandson
named after him.
She said she missed so much growing up without her father, but she
admired him, a decorated pilot who gave his life in service.
"You would be proud of me for what I've done in my life, Dad," she
wrote. "But you will never, never know how proud we are of you. You
gave it all for us."