Memorial Day - my scars

I was never in a battle. Never even in the service. But Vietnam was my war and with it I have my own scars and my own unique Memorial Day memories.  And for the record, I love my country and always have, but I don't always like it. 

My memories are cheap compared to others.  As far as I know, I lost no one there.  No name to etch from the Wall. No family member returned home to cope with the loss of a leg or an arm or themselves.

Of course, I have since met many men who were there and have been fascinated by their stories.  Those who would talk with nonchalance; those who would talk with pain; those who would not talk at all.  The latter were the ones that disturbed me most of all.

Vietnam was something I grew up with through grade school and into college.  Before 24 hour news channels and tons of entertainment options, we had one TV with three channels and you had to walk to change the channels. Each 6:30 network news broadcast was a mirror image of the other. It was the first war brought into our living rooms and we could see battles and killings every evening delivered to us in small digestible increments.  Journalism was learning its way with the new technology and if the competition does it, so must you. But as with most programming you see on TV, the images seem either too real or not real at all.

I went away to college in 1971 at age eighteen after fulfilling my obligation to appear before the Selective Service Board to register for the military draft.  I went to college not to escape the draft, for there were no more student deferments.  I left to escape my hometown.  The America of the 60’s had caught up with the Bladen County North Carolina in the 70’s. My senior year there were bomb threats (usually fourth period) and race demonstrations.  Elizabethtown had come of age.  If America was in turmoil, I wanted to be somewhere where there might be a chance to see hope.

In college, Vietnam was, of course, the major cause. I witnessed demonstrations and protests and I even grew to envy the extremist on both sides.  To them everything was clear.  This was right.  That was wrong.  Simple. No confusion.  Black and white with no gray allowed.  The same way I envy but despise the extremists of today. 

I think for most of us things weren’t that easy.  We didn’t want to die, but more importantly we didn’t want to be put in a position where we would have to kill.  And if we had to do either, we needed to know it would be worth something.  That was the question and no one had an answer -- no one sane anyway.

The Draft Lottery loomed large in the late 60’s and early 70’s.  Every male in those years was aware that most of the rest of his life would be changed (or at least influenced) by a simple event that would take place in October of his eighteenth year. I don’t remember the date but in my six story dormitory it was the “social event” of the season. We all cut class and gathered around the television in the lobby for the vigil which seemed to go on forever.  Winning or losing numbers were based on a number assigned to your birth date.  After about four hours my number came up -- 193.  The draft cutoff was estimated to be 165.

So I was safe.  I wouldn’t have to go serve my country and face the prospect of war if I didn’t wish to. In retrospect, the military would have been good for me.  I certainly needed discipline. But in 1971, the idea of enlisting never have crossed my mind. It was the time of Vietnam.

So I was safe.  Now what. I didn’t know quite what to do or how to feel. My life had dodged its first bullet without me having to decide or do anything at all. Those are my scars; little, but deep and definitely still there all these years later.

If my number had come up, I would have served.  Canada was always talked about as an option but I would never have done that.  I knew that then and I know it now.  But I never had to make the decision.

In the 90’s, my step-son entered Naval ROTC at Duke and then served for 5 years in the Navy serving on several warships.  He was on the USS Carl Vinson aircraft carrier as it was rounding the horn of India when 9/11 took place.  That ship would later launch the first fighter attacks on Afghanistan.  Later, ironically, he would be on the USS Cowpens when it launched the first missile attacks on Iraq in 2003.

I think of him on Memorial Day.

There was one eighteen-year-old at that long ago lottery festival that I will always remember.  I had never seen him before and would never see him again but for that one day he was famous.  He was number 1.  The look on his face – amusement, irony, resignation.  All the looks I had expected to see on my own face.  We all chipped in and bought him a case of beer. I learned later that he got roaring drunk and left school the next day.

I think of him on Memorial Day, too.

Evolution of morning on May 25, 2012

I woke up very early this morning. I tried to look at the clock without moving and all I saw was a blur of numbers.  After debating how curious I really was, I raised my head and squinted enough to see “4:12”. 

I knew immediately that I was not going back to sleep.  Sometimes you just know these things. But I continued to lie there so as not to disturb the rest of the house – particularly the dogs.

So I laid there and thought.  And thought.  And thought.  I thought about what woke me up.  I thought about my left shoulder which has been hurting me and I which I think is what woke me up.  I thought about whether or not I should go to the doctor.  I thought about how I really didn’t want to go to the doctor.  I thought about how adulthood wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be.  I thought on.

As I have done a lot lately as has been described in this blog, I thought about growing up in my hometown of Elizabethtown and I thought of stories I could and should write; about our house, the house next door that burned down leaving only a set of concrete steps, Dad grilling on Saturday nights and watching wrestling through the window, making ice cream, killing flies for recreation (life existed before Xbox); just things that are coming back to me that I haven’t thought of in a lifetime.

By 5:21 it seems light enough now to minimize the trama to the dogs so I got up (as quietly as I could so as not wake Connie) to start their morning routine.  The light is in that early transition period between night and morning that has them both at a stalemate.  I turn on the outside light but it has little effect.

First order of business is to fetch the paper.  I do this more for the sake of jump starting the dogs plumbing than a desire to read all the news that’s fit to print in the Hendersonville Times-News. The driveway is about 100 yards long and walking slowly it gives them an opportunity that they usually take full advantage of.  Much to my surprise, the paper was there.  What time do those people go to work?

When I opened the door to the screened porch to let them in, we hit the first problem of the day.  Toby and Tristan wait impatiently as if they were in the starting blocks for the 100 meters at the Olympics.  When the door opens they race each other to the kitchen expecting some human to be there to feed them.

Tris miscalculated just how open the door was and ran his head into the corner edge.  He didn’t make a sound and it didn’t even slow him down much but there is a mark on his head right between his eyes and it had to hurt.  Note to self: modify how I open the door in the morning.

They’re fed.  I make coffee and then make my way to the screened porch – the favorite room of our house. We have a one-seater cloth swing chair that I sit in and put my feet on a pillow placed on the railing for just that purpose.

I hear what I first thought was rain but it was just the sound of the trees releasing the rain they had collected overnight by stretching their leaves towards the oncoming sun.

The crows are loud that time of day.  I think they’re crows.  They sound like crows. My guess is they’re related to roosters as they seem intent on informing an already informed world of the upcoming day.  There’s one little bat darting back and forth over the yard not wanting to go home.  Finally, he relents.

I have the brilliant idea of trying to take a picture from my chair through the screen out onto the yard.  Unfortunately, the flash goes off and I ended up with a picture of my feet on the rail.

As the light takes over, morning activities begin.  The dogs, who initially stayed with me on the porch, have gotten bored and moved to the other end of the house to wait for Connie -- they’re next best chance for food.  One of our neighbors appeared walking his two small white dogs as he does every morning without fail.  This must be one of his good days; he’s not using his cane.

The light has once again defeated the darkness and the song birds take over.  It’s 7 o’clock. 

I think I’ll go to bed.   

Dad was a cabinet maker/carpenter

Dad was a cabinet maker/carpenter and had a shop at the start of the Ice Plant Road just a block from the hospital where I was born.  It was a tin, square building without even a sign and it was a magical place for me. 

The best part of the shop was a pile of discarded pieces of wood from cuts he had made with his various saws.  They were my toys.  Odd shapes and unusual angles.  The irony is not  lost on me that my favorite things growing up were the discarded waste from other projects.  That seems to still apply.

Once a client wanted a giraffe hat rack.   Dad made one that stood, I think, about 5 feet high.  It was painted white with black spots.  Its tail was dowel with a round, red ball of wood at the end and a smile was painted on his face.  I loved it. 

I wanted it. 

The client was late picking it up and after much harassment Dad finally said that if it hadn’t been picked up by the end of the week, I could have it.  The client, however, came back on that Friday. I don’t remember if I cried or just felt like it.  I was probably six.

I'm sure if I had pressed the issue, Dad would have made one just like it for me.  I never asked.  There was only one.

I remember going to the shop with Dad.  I also remember not being able to go with him as much as I wanted to.  He would come home for lunch and I would eat quickly and then go outside and try to hide in the backseat floorboard of our black Chevy so I could stowaway to the shop with him.  I remember trying this tactic a number of times. I don't remember it ever working.  Apparantly, I wasn't as good at hiding as I thought I was. 

I don't know how often it would happen but it happened often enough to make me still remember it 50 years later.  Dad would come home from work and bring a pack of two Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts that he would buy at Jack Marshall’s Esso just up the street from the shop.  Judy and I would rush out, take the doughnuts and eat them on the spot. 

He would smile.  Mission accomplished.

The night Dad died, I wasn't home.

My father died of brain cancer (though technically of a heart attack) at home on Wednesday night November 8, 1961. I was not at home.

I spent that night next door at the Inmans' house.  I remember this because it was a Wednesday night and the Inmans let me stay up to see Alvin and the Chipmunks which came on at 9pm.  That was a pretty big deal to an eight year old in 1961.

Mr. Jesse Inman owned the local Red and White grocery store and we called him Mr. Jesse.  He was one of the kindest men I ever knew.  His status with me was also enhanced by an ability to imitate the sound of a mooing cow which could be heard all over the store.  He had two sons.  Tony was my age and Joe a couple of years older.  We spent years playing whatever sport was in season in one of our two yards.

I know in retrospect that at some point that night the phone rang and Mr. Jesse was told that Dad had died.  I don't know if the decision was made not to tell me or Mr. Jesse just couldn't bring himself to tell me that my father was dead.  Who could have blamed him?  Many years later I had to tell my step-daughter over the phone that her father had died.  It was one of hardest things I’ve ever had to do. 

The next morning started normally as far as I was concerned and I walked home to get ready to spend another day in third grade at Elizabethtown Primary School.  The first thing I saw walking back across the yard was a wreath hanging on the wall next to the front door -- and the front door was open.

Our front door opened into what we called the "living room".  Ironically, it was the least used room in the house.  The "door" and the "room" were never used it except for formal occasions.  In later years, Judy would receive her gentleman callers there and but as of that day it was only used for Christmas.  (We left the front door unlocked on Christmas Eve for Santa Claus because we didn't have a fireplace.) In cold months, we would close it off completely to save heat. 

I went into the house through the front door and I saw that a podium had been set up in the living room with a book on it.  I later learned it was for vistors to sign when they paid their respects to the family.  Next to the podium Mom was sitting in a chair with Judy standing just behind her—both were crying.  I walked to Mom and she said simply, “Daddy’s gone.”  Always helpful, I responded, “Gone where?”

I don't know what words were actually said but eventually I got it.  I began to cry. Mom tried to hug me but I broke away and I ran back to the bedroom to see my Dad.  For some reason I believed he would still be there.

But Mom was right. 

He was gone.

Dad's wallet

Today would be Dad's 114th birthday.  Here are a things that he carried in his wallet.

Dad didn't really go to church that much and when he did and hymns were sung he would mumble the words. But he loved to sing "AMEN".

He would go to Sunday School but then leave in order to "start the rice" for Sunday dinner.

 This is front and back of a folded piece of paper that I had never seen before.

On the left are the birth and death dates of his parents.  Upper right are the dates of his sister for whom I am loosely named.
The others are the names and dates of his brothers.

He kept it with him always.

Dad's last driver's license.

The Clarks of Elizabethtown

We had, what I always appreciated to be, an unusual family.  Lee Ernest Clark was raised on the family farm with his sister and four brothers and did not marry until he was in his thirties.  When he did marry Mary Maxine Butler, she was eighteen.  Nothing to my knowledge is known of either their courtship, marriage or their early years together. 

I remember that my father told me once, when somehow the subject must have come up, that he was driving his Model T down the road, saw Maxine, slowed down and said “Get in.”  They then drove across the state line to Dillon, South Carolina and got married.  Years after he was gone I told my mother what Dad had said and her face took on an expression that combined horror and amusement.  But she never completely denied it.

Somewhere in the timeline, Ernest and Maxine moved onto Rinaldi Street in Elizabethtown, Bladen County, North Carolina.  Dad by then had become a carpenter and built the house that I grew up in.  By the time I came along, my parents had been married for 22 years.  They had adopted my sister Judy Ann Clark seven years before. 

The next story I know to be true because it was told to me by my mother.  When my sister was six years old, for some unknown reason, there was a horse or pony at our Uncle Horace’s house. Uncle Horace and Aunt Vi lived just a couple of houses away.  Judy was put on this animal and proceeded to fall off – blame was never determined.  Mom was concerned for her and took her to see our family doctor – Dr. Channing Glenn. 

Dr. Glenn was one of those men who commanded absolute trust.  His word was never questioned in all the years he was known to us.  He examined Judy and declared her to be fine.  Mom thanked him and then said, “While I’m here, I haven’t been feeling too well lately.”

Dr. Glenn examined Mom and then told her that either she had the gout or she was five months pregnant.   I’ve often wondered that if Judy had not fallen off that horse that day, would I have just shown up one January morning.

Mack, as she was called, was a large woman; a fact that I appreciate even more now as I have inherited her body type.  By today’s standard it might seem ridiculous that a woman wouldn’t know that such a thing was happening to her body.  But in 1952, she was old 39 years old and had given up on the possibility.

From what I was told, due to the unexpected nature of Mom’s pregnancy, I became the miracle baby of my hometown.  In that age long before the sex of a baby could be told before birth and, based on some flawed reasoning,  it was determined that I was to be a girl and I would named Evelyn after my father’s sister who had died giving birth in 1926 at the age of 23.

Consequently, when I arrived in early January 1953, displaying all the attributes of not being a girl, I had already ruined my first birthday party.   I was named Elvin (derived somehow from Evelyn) Glenn (from Dr. Glenn, oracle of the miracle) Clark.   Once I asked my mother why she had let Dad name me Elvin (as I considered it a burden).  She told me that during the birthing process in the hospital they gave her ether and for the first three days of my life she could care less what they called me. 

Judy’s life was naturally thrown into chaos by my arrival.  This was proven the very next month when Judy’s birthday came and she invited several friends over for a birthday party; a party that Judy had neglected to tell Mom about.  Also, during that period and being what would be termed a colicy baby, I would start crying hysterically at the stroke of four o'clock every afternoon. It created all the elements of a perfect storm.

So were the beginnings of the Clarks of Elizabethtown.  Three people who chose each other and an unexpected interloper.

The Day I Found Out

By the time I came to know how sick my father was, he was dying.  I was eight years old.  Judy was fifteen. It was 1961.

It was a single, specific day although I don't know the date.  I knew Dad had been spending a lot of time in bed and seemed to be sleeping a lot.  I just thought he'd get over it; if I thought anything about it at all.

There was a great disturbance in the house that day. A special bed was being delivered and our cousin, Marvin Daniel, was there; which was odd. I remember wondering why.

Cousin Marvin, as my sister and I always called him, was a huge man in my eyes.  He owned a farm just outside of town on the Peanut Road and grew tobacco, raised chickens and pigs.  He and Cousin Juanita had six (or possibly more, I admit to losing track) children that seem to be equally spaced in age.  Linda was the oldest and she was my sister’s age.  They remain close friends to this day.  Francis was a year older than me and eventually we would play high school football together.

The moment came when the special bed was set up and Dad had to be transferred from his bed to the new one.  Cousin Marvin lifted my father in his arms and held him like a broken child. I remember the look of sadness on Marvin’s face as he held my father who seemed completely limp and lifeless.  I don’t know how long he held Dad. I have no idea how long it took. I just watched Cousin Marvin holding my father. 

I remember nothing else about that day but I realize now that much of who I am and how I think are rooted in that day. The day I found out my father could die.