The day I gave birth to my son was one of the most beautiful days of my life. He was the first child I had without an epidural, and by choice. The intense pain combined with the momentum of the adrenaline I got afterwards was unequivocally one of the most outstanding memories of my life. Looking down at this beautiful boy, his red hair placed into a perfect mohawk, a tell-tell sign of the calycs I would one day hairspray on to his head before pictures, he was perfect. His face noticeably more masculine than his sisters before him. His little body with a perfect count of everything. The way his face curled into looks that hilariously made him resemble an old grumpy man instead of the newborn baby he was.From that moment came a whirlwind of precious memories. His first steps which quickly became him running as fast as he could on his tip toes, the way he would put one leg straight when he would come down the steps so it was lightening speed and made us all laugh. How he was immediately more intrigued by mechanics and all things boys typically gravitate to. The day he poured his own cereal all over the table at 2 years old, and I walked into a toddler covered in flour. His three year old self laying down with me every night and looking over and saying "Mom, you wanna hold hands?" while we watched movies. The day he walked into my room and caught me having a crying mom moment, and he came over and kissed me on my forehead and said "Why are you sad mom? Don't be sad, I love you". Watching him jump off diving boards and face his fears and try to keep up with the big boys...working on stuff in the garage with his dad. His voice when he told me about his first fish. My son. My light. He's only four and I can only imagine the amount of memories my heart will hold 14 years from now when he becomes 18. Millions of tiny moments forming a mosaic of my memory of him. My little boy.
I think of my years in high school. The boys I went to school with. My husband. All of them, so young and vivacious. Fooling around and laughing louder than they should at things not as funny as they seemed. Playing baseball, pulling up in trucks and cars....mere shadows of the men they'll become. Then, before life beats them up a bit. Before the world puts them to work slaving under the sun to support themselves and their families. I remember those guys. Before 9/11. Now I'm thinking of my Dad, and his friends in school. Vietnam raging in the background of their youth. Being afraid, and yet living in the shadow of those who had fallen before them. World War II never too far out of mind. Those stories of the glory days of war replaying on an endless soundtrack of boys wanting to do their part as men, and yet afraid to do so at the same time. They came from big cities and farms and suburbs, as different up-bringings as night and day, and yet they all found themselves being a number twirling around waiting to be plucked out of a sea of names. Some of them, not waiting around for destiny to decide their fate, they volunteer. They turn 18 that morning, and are at the recruiter's office that afternoon. Young men like my Dad's friend Randy Harris, who went to the grocery store where my Dad worked, excited to tell my Dad that he'd just joined the Marines. My Dad wanted to fly, so it was Airforce instead of Marines. This is a decision he feels great guilt over to this day, because Randy Harris never made it back from Vietnam. His mother's mosaic of her son ending in a memory that no mother wants. My Dad went to the Airforce recruiters office and took the test. They said they'd call, and he waited. And waited. In the mean time, a friend told him they were all going to go sign up that day for the Airforce reserves, that they were taking guys right now. My dad was ready to go NOW instead of later, so he went that day. The Friday after he left for bootcamp my grandma got the call from the Airforce, but my dad had already shipped out to bootcamp. The what ifs of those decisions still linger, but the fact is I might not be here to write this had things not worked out the way they did. He went on and did the things he needed to do. He learned. Then one day his group got the call. This was it. This was the beginning of his own glorious war story, because no young man ever really sees their story ending the way Randy Harris' did. You accept it as a risk, but not as a reality. I imagine his adrenaline pumping. I imagine the fear and excitement of the unknown that they all felt was something their teenage bodies could not contain. Then he found out that those in supply, like himself, would not be going. For that reason he never spoke about it. He felt like what he did didn't matter. He doesn't speak about his time in service like it was much at all. What he does speak about every now and again is Randy Harris. He can still see his smiling face walking in the grocery store to tell him. He can still feel the pang of guilt that he wasn't there beside him. It's a sad thing to be able to see a young smiling face in your mind's eye, and yet know the tragedy that awaits them at the turn of the page. That thing that snuffed out their flame. The light of Randy Harris' life still glows bright in my Dad. He remembers him every year, and now I do too.
Now there are men and women who pack their bags every single day. They leave their homes, their families and their friends. They sign a piece of paper that demands them to uphold their promise long after the whim is gone. They willingly make a choice that should it hit the fan, they might actually die for their country. The mother's say goodbye with just as many memories as we all have with our children. Those small hands we hold, those little shoes we tie, those hugs and laughter and tears...the endless hours you pour into someone you love. We could all lose children we love, but it is a strange thing to watch your child willingly walk into that possibility. Should I ever have to do the same, I hope I do it with Grace. Thank you to our Veterans, no matter where you served or for how long. Thank you for willingly putting your life on the line for us. Thank you for enduring the bootcamps and the long hours and the terrible food. For those that look into the face of death and scream into oblivion...not today, Thank you. Thank you to the ones who came back without sight or limbs or outwardly scarred beyond belief. Thank you to those who walk through life with the scars we can not see. The guilt of surviving when some gave it all, and all of the unsaid things that come with it. Thank you Randy Harris. Even though you were only 18, your life not even scratching the surface of adulthood, you were brave and gave the ultimate sacrifice. Veteran's day is for all of you. We salute you.
