Lessons from a patriarch

From time to time, as they do in real life, my musings will take me back to earlier days, special people and memories worth living anew. This piece “From the archives” was my tribute to a special uncle on his passing a few years ago.

I didn't see my Uncle Vernon often, because after World War II he left the prairies of Illinois to raise his family in California. But, every few years, he and his family would come by train to stay at my grandparents. When I think of my uncle, I can't help but remember waiting anxiously for them to arrive at a big old depot that is no more.

When God was handing out uncles, I hit the jackpot. I didn’t get just one or two. Between my dad’s and mother’s sides of the family, I got eleven.

Uncle Vernon was the oldest, and though nearly 2,000 miles separated us, his love and wisdom seemed to catch an eastward wind and blow back to his home state of Illinois.

Our chances to visit through the years were much less frequent than I would have wished, but the lessons I learned from the distant patriarch of our clan will stay with me forever.

• Go west, young man (or east or wherever it is you belong), but do it.
• Watch for trains in the distance. You never know when they’ll come bearing loved ones.
• Savor old depots with warm wooden benches and Chiclets gum machines (or any other old building whose walls hold stories of days gone by).
• Love your brothers – and love your cousins as if they were brothers.
• Work hard and retire harder.
• Make your golden years platinum.
• See the world.

And there’s that one lesson he gently taught me that I didn’t learn very well: Just be quiet and listen.

As I think back, I can’t remember many of the words my uncle said – probably because I was too busy doing all the talking - but I can remember that he always listened.

And when he listened, Uncle Vernon’s eyes spoke for him, saying ever so gently, “I love you.”

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2012

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When the vets came marching in

A teenaged reflection during the war in Vietnam

From time to time, as they do in real life, my musings will take me back to earlier days, special people and memories worth living anew.

I was a teen in the sixties and most of what I remember about the war in Vietnam was wishing that we weren’t there. It just didn’t seem right to send our boys off somewhere to fight for something I didn’t understand, and it was easy to get on the “Make love, not war” bandwagon, to sing antiwar songs and wear peace symbol necklaces.

Later as I grew older and, especially after I married a Vietnam vet, I was embarrassed by the way we treated these young men upon their return, many of whom probably wished as much as we did that they didn’t have to go into those godforsaken jungles.

As I was looking through my earlier work, I ran across this piece in a notebook from English class during my sophomore year of high school. Please forgive my passive voice and not-yet-developed skills as a writer. This little article “From the archives” captured a moment in history even I don’t remember. Though the grammar and syntax would be much different were I to write this piece today, I think it’s worth sharing.

Oct. 5, 1967, Galesburg, Ill.

Friday, Sept. 29, 1967 was a big day for Galesburg. It was the day the Vietnam vets would come “marching in.”

They didn’t march, however. They rode through the streets of Galesburg in cars furnished by local auto agencies.

[The vets] arrived about 2:45 p.m., 45 minutes later than their expected arrival time. The parade began at about 3 p.m.

These men were welcomed to Galesburg from Great Lakes Naval Hospital by crowds of about 8,000 people, many of whom waved flags. Some people had flags so large they hung them out windows of downtown buildings.

Two Costa [High School] boys had an extremely large flag hanging from a third story window above Bowman’s Shoe Store.

Seeing the vets was an experience I’ll never forget. When I was going home Friday afternoon, we drove by the Travelodge, where the veterans were staying. Two of them waved when we waved, and I was thrilled tremendously.

Their activities Saturday consisted of lunch at local homes, and an afternoon of bowling, miniature golf or relaxation.

I walked by two of them Friday, and when they answered my “Hello” with a cheery “Hello,” it made my spine tickle, I was so thrilled.

Saturday evening, they were guests of honor at a dance at Hotel Custer escorted by Galesburg girls. We drove by Hotel Custer at about 9:30, and it looked as if all were enjoying themselves.

Sunday the veterans were treated to a brunch at The Huddle, a visit to Carl Sandburg’s Memorial Service and a steak dinner at Harbor Lights before leaving Galesburg at 6:00 p.m.

Jan. 7, 2012

About 20 years ago, when I was taking a class on the literature of Illinois at Western Illinois University, my professor, John E. Hallwas, talked about the way memory is always reshaping itself.

As the Vietnam War ran on and after it ended, the memories I had of those days were of how poorly we treated our vets upon their return to the U.S.

I’d not just reshaped the memory of that day. I’d blocked it completely.

Finding this essay now doesn’t undo the way we did our Vietnam vets wrong, but it does make me feel thankful that on that weekend in September 1967, my hometown extended a warm welcome to this group of young men who had given so much.

© Ann Tracy Mueller 2012

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