A fallen friend resurrects the miracle of Christmas
By GREGG WEINLEIN, Commentary
Published 8:17 pm, Saturday, December 22, 2012
The holidays began quite differently for me this year. Instead of the commercial mayhem of Black Friday, I found myself at the
Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, staring at The Wall and the endless scroll of 58,286 names.
Slowly, I walked past the reflecting panels of black granite. The names tumbled into one another — left-right, left-right, up-down, up-down, much like a military march of lives lost to the brutality of war.
I was overwhelmed by emotions. I was on the same somber mission as so
many others to find the name of the soldier we lost. My heart raced searching for the name of Kevin Joseph McArdle, my childhood friend from Albany, who died Aug. 18, 1968, in Quang Nam province. My heart beat faster with the same sadness and anxiety that consumed the other visitors to The Wall.
My heart ran wild through memories with Kevin: the ballgames, the parties, the school pranks, our music, and the weekend nights that forgot to end. How did we stomach all those 10-cent drafts of cheap beer at Knapp's Tavern? My heart was reckless tearing through these images of my youth with Kevin as I searched for his name. I tried to calm myself and channeled a lyric of the musician Brian Fallon's: "Be still my heart, I age by years, at the mention of your name." But my heart sped fiercely through glory days with Kevin marching off with our teenage friends to Ridgefield Park for our weekend battle12/25/12 'At the mention of your name' -
between kids from Madison Avenue and New Scotland Avenue. My heart pounded heavily at the ease with which memory condenses time as if one weekend we fought those silly, high school turf wars, and the next weekend we said goodbye to Kevin dressed in his military outfit at the funeral parlor. One week just a teenager, and the next, a deceased teenage war veteran.
"Be still my heart." I trembled when I found Kevin's name: Panel W / Row 46. I cried tracing my finger over each carved letter. I whispered the last stanza to "A Stripe," a poem I wrote more than 40 years ago for "Demilitarized Zones," an anthology of Vietnam War writings: And I can't help thinking of Kevin who still wears his boots and his uniform inside the coffin in that brought him home.
Later that evening, in the bar at the nearby Marriott, I thought there must be an emotional asterisk for so many at the mere utterance of the simple words "Merry Christmas." And then I thought how we are all soldiers, especially during the holidays — not soldiers fighting in a war — but soldiers who must brave life's other cruelties. I thought about Sara's divorce, the horrific accident on the Northway, Larry losing his job, Mary's visit from the Marines to inform her that her son was killed on patrol in Afghanistan, Ben's family devastated by Hurricane Sandy, and Josh and Lisa staying at the Ronald McDonald House for the holidays. I could only imagine how many must wear the mask of merriment each holiday season. And I realized I was not alone that Black Friday morning. I was blessed, as were the other visitors to The Wall, by a miracle of
Christmas, the presence of guardian angels, our reinforcements, who gave us strength to endure and to go on. Sitting at the hotel pub, I recalled how each glance from a stranger, during our tear-stained journey to find a name, was accompanied by a holiday message as if to say, "I'm with you. Stay strong."
This was the miracle of Christmas at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial: Never forgotten. Never alone. Despite the crushing emotional pain, we managed to transpose to each other a spirit of compassion, and strength, and peace. The waitress set my Guinness on a cardboard coaster. "Tough day," she noted and then explained, "This season can be exhausting. You look very tired." Her brown eyes sparkled with energy and I thought of Van Morrison's most popular song. I smiled, "Yeah. ... a long day. But we stay strong, right?" I lifted my pint and wished her happy holidays.
With a plastic straw from the counter of the bar, I wrote the initials of Kevin's name into the creamy head of my pint. Empowered by the miracle of Christmas that I found at The Wall, I sighed knowing my childhood friend was somewhere up in the big sky laughing down at me for what I just paid for my glass of beer.
Gregg Weinlein is a retired English teacher from East Greenbush. He's working on two book manuscripts. His email address is: greggw97@aol.com.12/25/12 'At the mention of y our name' - Times Union www.timesunion.com/opinion/article/At-the-mention-of -y our-name-4141214.php#ixzz2FzX6m0sF 4/4
Target: Department of Corrections and Community Supervision, Albany, NY
Slowly, I walked past the reflecting panels of black granite. The names tumbled into one another — left-right, left-right, up-down, up-down, much like a military march of lives lost to the brutality of war.
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