A Veteran, A Hat, and the Loneliness of Memories

 

"You're wearing my favorite hat." The elderly gentleman to whom I addressed this comment reached up and touched the brim of his Vietnam Veteran's cap and gave me a nod as he placed his slightly shaking hands on the handle of his Costco shopping cart. 

"My dad had one just like it. If he wasn't wearing it he placed it on the dash of his car," I continued. 

"When did he serve?" he asked.

After I told him when my dad was there, he informed me he did two tours a few years after my dad, mid 60's, then again in the early 70's.

"I went back near the end, which didn't make her too happy." He pointed a bent finger to a patient, smiling woman who stood nearby. She just tipped her head. 

I asked him which branch, and he told me Army. I talked a little about my dad, who was Special Forces. He said he had a lot of respect for the Green Beret soldiers over there. He asked if my dad was still living. I told him no, he died fifteen years ago, this month. 

"He was young, then." I agreed.

At one time 70 would not have seemed all that young to me, but as I am wickedly close to 65, it definitely doesn't seem to be all that old. Goes to prove the saying, 'The older I get, the older old gets.'

The conversation turned to all of his friends he had recently lost--many of them due to the long term effects of Agent Orange. I mentioned this was the major contributing factor to my father's early demise. We both agreed it was a terrible tragedy. I thanked him for his service, and wished him a good day. As he slowly pushed his cart down the aisle, his wife scurried back to me. 

"Thank you. You made his day." She smiled and had a bit of moisture in her eyes. I told her it was my pleasure.

John joined me and we continued our shopping. As we were perusing the fruit, he noticed the man struggling to wrestle a large shop fan onto a flatbed. We could hear his wife telling him he couldn't do it, he was going to hurt himself. John approached him and asked if he needed some help. 

After they loaded it together, John asked where they lived. Unfortunately it was nowhere near us, or I'm sure John would have volunteered to follow them home and unload it. They said their lawn guy would be there the next morning and they would have him unload it.  Once again, they were grateful and appreciative for the interaction. 

 It brought to mind a memory that had been brought back to me during a random conversation. A long ago memory. I had reached out to my older sister to see if she recalled the incident. She didn't, and I admitted I have an odd memory for certain things. When she responded, my initial thought was our mom would remember it. Then almost simultaneously the realization hit that my mom is no longer here for me to confer with. Even after eight years, I still do that. 

I relayed that to my sister, and we had the conversation that there are few people left in the generation before us in our family. The memories are nearly all ours to hold on to and perhaps to pass on. The feeling that I and I alone am the only person left to recall that singular incident made me very sad. It made me feel as if I don't hang on to it, it's as if it didn't happen. 

My mind held on to that memory, it meant something to me. I was six-years old. I can still see it, smell it and put myself there. It mattered to me at that time so much that 59 years later I can still call it back up. But with no one to re-live it with me, the memory feels very lonely. I fell almost isolated in it. 

I wonder if that is how that bent, aged Vietnam Veteran feels? Or the few WWII Veterans that are still living? Life changing memories, world altering times they shared with comrades, brothers. They can still see, hear, smell, taste the battlefields.  As their friends and fellow soldiers are dying, who is around to remember with them? Share the cost of the sacrifices? Does it make them feel isolated and alone in their memories?

Taking a few moments to confer with a sweet old soul in the aisle of a busy Costco on a Sunday afternoon didn't cost me a thing. But it meant something to him. His wife told me that Agent Orange had damaged his heart and he had been through multiple heart surgeries and would probably be facing another. He most likely feels his mortality deeply, regularly. How easy it is to take a minute to remind the people in the generation that preceded us, not merely veterans, that they mattered. That we care about their memories. That we see them.

I would hope that someone at some time stopped my dad and thanked him for his service. Or told him they liked his hat.