Still Remembering

Memorial Day, 2013

I can’t remember his name. I barely remember his friendly, sunburned face. Like a lot of us stationed at Di An, South Vietnam in 1968,  he went to bed after a long day’s work and, no doubt, fell asleep. Sometime in the dark hours of early morning, the Viet Cong launched a barrage of mortars, landing them right on top of us.

Having just returned from a month at Lai Khe, which received rocket and mortar fire many times every day and night I was there, I awoke at the first sound and dashed toward our bunker. By then, it was routine. My friends and I made it to safety that night—but he didn’t.

A couple of days after the attack, I recall a few of us attending a brief memorial service led by a chaplain we barely knew. An empty pair of combat boots and his empty helmet set upon his M-16 provoked a serious sense of loss. We left the meeting in silence and never talked about it with each other again.

It is likely his family and friends will remember him on Memorial Day. They probably still lament a life cut far too short, and what he might have become. For some reason, I remember him, too. He was one of the 58,150 others whose lives were lost during that far away war. He was one who lived where I lived.

The count goes on. A vast number of men and women, serving their country in uniform, have lost their lives in many conflicts. They still do. Since the beginning of this nation, their sacrifices have helped to preserve and protect this country, and they still do!

Like I said, I can’t remember his name and I barely remember his face. But this Memorial Day, for some reason, I remember him. I will remember others, as well. So will many of you.

God bless and comfort those who remember, and God bless the United States of America. 

www.quietstreambooks.com

IT WAS A FIRST...

February 27, 201

Living in progressive times like these makes it possible to still experience “firsts,” even as the years pile up.  Take, for example, my first adventure with the GPS function of my new Droid phone yesterday. Being in a remote neighborhood of Portland and needing to get to a certain hospital to make a pastoral visit, I asked a couple of questions of my relatives about directions. One of them set up the phone’s GPS/map function and said all I had to do was follow instructions.

Fine. I can do that. I can follow instructions. So I boarded my Rave4, slid the phone in an available slot, and took off. A pleasant feminine voice gave patient directions. I listened and obeyed. It seemed that all went better than imagined.

Now, I know Portland pretty well. It took me but a few right and left turns to figure out where I was in relation to the rest of the city. In fact, I soon knew exactly where to go and didn’t really need the GPS (I’ll call her, “Gipsy”). When I got to a fork in the road, the sign said I should veer to the right, but Gipsy urged me to the left. Then she started to spit out rapid-fire commands. I was to turn right on Blah-blah SE, then left on Blah-blah, followed by an immediate order to turn right on East Blah-blah Avenue.

Three quick commands referring to streets with which I was not entirely familiar turned out to be more than I could process. I couldn’t read the street signs fast enough and made a wrong turn. Gipsy began a whole new line of orders. “Right at Blah-blah Drive, right at Blah-blah Street NE and make a U-turn.” Brother, was she ever bossy. When I somehow arrived at the correct place, a No U-Turn sign forced me to keep going forward. Gipsy, nevertheless, continued a series of quick orders to turn either left or right. I sensed her vocal chords tightening just a bit—or was it me?

I suddenly found myself in a part of Portland I had seen before. In fact, that time I got lost without the benefit of Gipsy. She’s still talked to me, but I didn’t listen anymore. I got to a freeway on-ramp and gunned my car in the right direction.

Gipsy spoke a little slower now—almost as if she felt tired. She told me to proceed three miles before turning onto a particular exit. Then she said no more. For three miles of rollicking Portland freeway driving I forged ahead in blissful silence. At the exit she gave clear orders I didn’t need to hear, and I told her so.

After the visit, I returned to my relatives home with a sense of serenity. I forbade Gipsy to speak, and got back to the our relatives’ house in almost half the time it took me to get from there to the hospital.

Moral:  A good map works for me better than that chatty electronic Gipsy. Still, I believe I’ll try it again. Maybe, like in almost everything else techno, practice will make perfect.

Richard M. Cary

www.quietstreambooks.com