The summer of '68...

I have to say the first 18 years of my life were about as good as it gets. I hope my beautiful wife, Debbie, doesn’t read that first sentence and think, “hey wait a minute! He met me shortly after that!” The last 40 years have been mighty fine too. When I turned 18 all the innocence of childhood was officially set aside to concentrate on the real world around me. Young men had been going to Vietnam for several years already and as the body count grew the darn war never seemed to end. At 18, I was officially a candidate for cannon fodder on that scary soil.

The Vietnam War stripped many young men and women of the carefree years. There was no thinking about just taking off for a year and working at odd jobs while trying to figure out the future. If a guy didn’t step out of the high school class directly into college he would soon find himself jumping out of a helicopter into Vietnamese jungle. My cousin, Mike, and I planned to go to college in Austin and then get jobs on a freighter to either Australia or Alaska. That darn war just kept looming over us though so we stayed right there....the university for Mike and junior college for me.

There were some really good times during those days of course. There was the night Mike and I went out running around with Hal and Fred. We ran into James while he was showing off his brand new Dodge Charger. He was drunk for some reason. I can’t imagine that of James, good soul that he was. Mike convinced James he shouldn’t be driving in his condition. He should let Mike drive instead. James got to feeling really bad after that. He decided he didn’t deserve to have a new car and caring friends who watched out for him. He insisted Mike stop so he could get out of the car. Being the caring friend Mike was he immediately pulled over and let James out. None of us had a clue where we were at the time. As we drove off into the night James wandered the streets trying to sober up enough to find his way home.

After a good long ride in James’ car we got to feeling a little guilty about leaving him behind like that. We drove back to where we thought we had left him. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. We must have used up half a tank of gas looking for him. We finally found him wandering down a dark street. Mike pulled up and rolled down his window. He asked James if he wanted a ride home. James was so moved by this he got tears in his eyes. He climbed in the back seat and went on and on about Mike’s great looking car. Mike told him the car didn’t belong to just him. It belonged to Mike, Hal, Fred, and Rusty. He also told him if he really liked it so much he would sell it to him for $20. Five for each of us. We agreed that was a fair price so James paid us for our car. We drove him home like the good friends we were. We told him he could take possession of his new car the next morning when he was feeling better. He thanked us and went in to hit the sack. Mike gave him the car back the next morning. We kept the money.

We had lots of good times running around with those guys. Every time we got together though the conversation always came around to the war. We all knew we wouldn’t live to see 21. As it turned out two of us didn’t live that long. Hal was killed in a plane crash shortly after Fred died from cancer. James lives in Arlington, Mike in Azle, and I’m sitting here in Hurst where I’ve always been. All three of us are proud grandpas.

The summer of 1968 was pretty darn good for the most part. I had a great job working in the hat shop at Six Flags. The girls were pretty and friendly, my friends in the shop were all crazy, and life seemed good. Early one beautiful morning I got a phone call from the main hat shop. Muriel, the owner’s wife, told me I needed to call home right away. I went to a pay phone and called. My dad answered crying. He told me my cousin Jamie had been killed in Vietnam. I have never heard words more sad. Jamie was full of life. It had to be a mistake. I went back to the shop completely numb. Muriel came down to check on me and told me to go home. I didn’t want to go home. I knew how much my parents loved Jamie. I didn’t want to see them heartbroken so I stayed at work. I cried until I thought I couldn’t cry anymore while Muriel held me and patted me on the back.

When I had the time to think about it I decided there must be some mistake. Jamie couldn’t have been killed. I knew in my heart we would get news saying it was a mistake. I made myself believe that until the day of his funeral. The casket was open but sealed with plexiglass. When I saw him laying in that casket in his dress blues I lost all hope in life. I can’t explain how I felt to see my cousin there never to speak or laugh or tell a joke again. I still can’t describe the feeling, or maybe I should say the loss of feeling I experienced at that moment. I cried so hard and long for Jamie all feeling left me after a while. I realized after a few years that I hadn’t cried since Jamie’s death.

I remember the first time I cried after the summer of 1968. It was when a good friend, David O., lost his dad. I went to the funeral and watched as one of my best friends said goodbye to his father. He had been a good man but I wasn’t that close to him. I had lost several distant relatives...no tears. I was sad but no tears. I had received so much in blessings but I couldn’t feel anything. I wanted to cry at times but I couldn’t. Then as I sat at Mr. O’s funeral I began to think of what was gone. My childhood was gone. My cousin Jamie had been blown apart in a distant jungle for no reason and was forever gone. All the fun times I had with David in high school were long gone. And I began to cry. I cried for Mrs. O. I cried for David. I cried for Jamie. I cried for myself. I cried all the way home. When I walked in the door to see Debbie and those precious little boys of mine I cried again. I thanked God for giving me the time I had lived. If it ended the next day I couldn’t complain.

It didn’t end the next day. Have I mentioned my grandchildren?