Last Thursday was Veteran’s Day. For the last 10 years at least I have gone out to the National Cemetery downtown to see my dad on that day.
I am not given to superstition or to magical thinking in the slightest. And Buck, while certainly a patriot in a very real sense in that he wore the uniform, fought in the Great War, and was generally proud to have done both, never waved the bloody shirt. Indeed, he didn’t have much to say about his experiences as a Seabee in the Pacific Theatre. This is in keeping with other military men and women who have seen terrible things. They tend not to talk about it.
No, he never hung out at the VFW. Neither did he join the American Legion. Never mind that these are fine organizations. Buck Bowen was done with the Big One and the United States Navy when he returned to Indiana.
As some of you may know, he passed along some wonky (to use my wife’s word) genes to his 4 sons as all of us have experienced cardiac stuff to one degree or another. This “stuff” runs the gamut from thus far fingers-crossed asymptomatic (me) to absolute worst case scenario (Dave). And Buck’s father died of a coronary, just as he would. Undoubtedly, he had this genetic destiny in mind when he told me, who was all of 16 at the time, not to take him to the VA hospital here in case he ever had a heart attack. Like I said, he was done with Uncle Sam once he got back stateside.
Buck probably would not expect a visit to his final resting place on Veteran’s Day, or any other day for that matter. But it seems like the least that I can do under the circumstances. Especially since I never wore the uniform and have only had one weapon pointed at me. And that was some girl’s irate father back when I was in high school. I talked my way out of that one. The Japanese were undoubtedly a little more unreasonable.
As I stood over Buck’s white stone, I thought about how his second boy David left us about a year ago. The first of the brothers to achieve escape velocity from this vale of tears. Buck, Donice and Dave. All lost and gone forever.
Last Thursday was sunny and crisp at that beautiful and hallowed patch of ground due east of my house adorned as it is with white markers as far as my old eyes could make them out. I found myself being touched by the fragility of it all. Which is a place I rarely go.
Life is altogether a Duke’s mixture of the wondrous and the soul crushing. I have recently written that I am struggling to make sense of it all-how God permits wonder to walk hand-in-hand with the soul crushing. And I am having absolutely zero success.
But yesterday morning was not a good time for such idle college dorm room theology. Folks were gathering at the pavilion on the grounds there to formally commemorate the day and the men and women that slumber beneath those grounds. Besides, I figured somebody could use my parking space.
As I said, I am not remotely superstitious and I do not engage in magical thinking. But I told Buck goodbye and I thanked him for his service. I also asked him to tell Mom and Dave “hello.”
Maybe he heard me somewhere on that distant shore. Maybe he didn’t. Probably he didn’t.
But still. I could not help but think of the wonder of it all. And in a universe where wonder still makes cameo appearances from time to time maybe it’s OK to give in to it when it does.
Like when I’m standing over my father’s grave on Veteran’s Day.
