The Wall

I blog when a story comes to mind--there is no rhyme or reason to it.  Whatever the LORD brings to mind.

Late today I was listening (I very rarely watch) to a program on TV.  One of the guests had mentioned wearing the POW metal bracelet back in the sixties.  My mind started whirling on the topic...I had to sit and blog.

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, I was quite the "liberal minded hippie chick".  My dad and mom disowned me for awhile.  It was hard to accept the direction that their oldest daughter took.  I was rebellious and wanted to spread my wings and I ended up in a totally different culture than the military upbringing that I had.

It was during that time that I bought a metal POW bracelet.  I wore it faithfully and voiced my anti-war opinion much to the disapproval of my parents.  The name on the bracelet was CHARLIE B. DAVIS, tour date 4/22/70. I found out in 1998 that he was a Air Force Colonel, 45 years old when his plane was shot down by hostiles in Laos. His body was never recovered. He was married, from Kentucky and was a Southern Baptist--maybe I will meet him in Heaven.

Life went on, the bracelet was lost in the move to Oregon (another long story but not right now).  I become a conservative Christian (to my parents delight).

In 1998, I was divorced and wanted to do something worthwhile for the July 4th holiday.  I read in the paper that the "Wall That Heals", the (Vietnam Traveling Memorial wall) was going to be in Molalla and that they needed volunteers to help out.  Perfect!  I signed up and showed up to experience something that deserves more than words.

I was taken to a tent with computers on a table.  People would come up with a name and I would look it up and hand them the location of where the name was.  All was going fine when I noticed a leather outfitted long hair gentleman sitting on a Harley just outside the perimeter of where we were setup.  Time went by and he was still there.  He was had his piece of paper in his hand but seemed to be struggling to get the courage up to walk up to the wall. 

He was still there when I was all alone in the tent.  Everyone went to lunch.  Six tough looking motorcycle guys with beards and all--for sure a version of Hell's Angels.  I was scared, it was just them and me.  The biggest meanest one moved up to the table with the others right behind him.  I looked into his eyes and saw that he was barely keeping it together and choked out the name that he wanted me to look up.  My fear was gone, this was a group of men who bravely came to find their fellow man.  We shared the same compassion.

I printed out the name and information and handed it to him. Sadness fell over all of them as they solemnly left the tent.

Next came an eighty five year old woman with a bracelet on--just like I had in the 70s!  She told me she has worn this bracelet along with another bracelet since 1970.  She refused to take them off through two surgeries (they had to tape them over to proceed).  One of the men's family she had the honor of finding and giving their son's bracelet to.  She hasn't found any family of the other soldier.  She told her sons that her dying wish is that she will be buried with this bracelet on.

I was so touched by her story that I found a reporter who was nearby and told him that he had to hear her story.  She was interviewed and we were filmed for the six o'clock news that night.  I was helping her rub the impression from the stone onto a piece of paper with a pencil.

When the reporter and camera left, I noticed how quiet it was at the wall. The wall was in the middle of the high school football field.  Although there were many people there, it was oddly quiet--respect hanging in the air.  It was then that I saw him, the lone motorcycle man standing at the wall.  He squatted down. His hand pressed against the cold stone wall and a tear ran down his face.  A lone crow flies ahead piercing the silence with its cry.

After awhile I leave and sit in my car.  The experience is overwhelming--the 4th of July now has greater meaning than yesterday and for years to come.  I want to encase it in my memory forever, so, I write out a poem.....

the wall

names, fifty thousand plus names
one after another on a wall to which he came.
squatting down, he reaches out to touch just one
holding on to all that is left of a friend or a son.

the silence is torn by a blackbird's cry
still he sits while people walk solemnly by
the name reaches deep inside his being
to his troubled soul comes a flood of healing.

still one with the ebony wall, he slowly lowers his head
his pain distant, i stand still without a word said.
above a lone firecracker explodes in the clouded cobalt blue sky
a tribute to a single name and to a man whose love for it did not die.