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I got a bunch of them.
They were in all different
sizes, ranks and poses.
They were even on different
sides. They were miniature Revolutionary War soldiers
made out of pewter. They were well-crafted and amazing things to see. They
were
given to me and I took them without even mumbling a “much obliged.” My
older
cousin Daryle had given them to me. Daryle was all dressed up in his army
uniform
when he gave me the gift. He looked even more impressive than the little
soldiers
did. I didn’t really want the little soldiers he offered me, but I took
them. Daryle
was a good man and as my elder, he deserved respect. I was at that awkward
age
when it came to such things. I was too old to play with the small troops
and too
young to really appreciate them. The only material things I was interested
in at that
age were my baseball glove, my GE transistor radio with the earphone and my
dream
car that I would be too young to drive even if I could have afforded to buy
it.
My mother always told me that a
person could never be too thankful. Even with that wonderful instruction, I
had neglected to thank Daryle for the little soldiers. I wish my
mother would have taken them from me, along with my old comic books and
baseball
cards, and told me that she would give them back to me when I turned 30 in
the
hopes that I would have developed a brain by then.
I had become the proud
possessor of a Springfield single-shot .22 rifle. I wanted to
practice with it. Daryle had shown me his marksmanship badge and I thought
maybe I could earn myself one of those one day. He was plenty proud of that
badge and told me
that it had taken a lot of practice to get it. A decent target cost good
money and I
wasn’t much of a hunter, so the little soldiers were the perfect prey for
me. I set the
little army men up on a rockpile and then began picking them off one-by-one
with my Springfield rifle. The shooting did wonders for my sharpshooting
skills, but it didn’t
do the little pewter figures much good. Soon they were all gone, shot to
pieces, yet
another item tossed upon my life’s scrap heap.
Time passed. I had forgotten
all about the tiny pewter soldiers until I received word
that Daryle had been killed in Vietnam. The day he gave me the little
soldiers was the
last day I was to ever see Daryle alive. He left a wife and two young
children. I felt
a horrible emptiness inside. I wanted to bring Daryle back. I wanted to
bring those
little pewter army men back. I never did thank Daryle for those little
soldiers.
Perhaps playing with the little soldiers is what made Daryle want to make
the Army
his career? I will never know.
Since that day that I learned
of Daryle’s death, I try very hard to thank everyone for everything.
Sometimes I forget, but I try real hard.
Some years ago, I made a trip
to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam
Memorial. I was going to make rubbings of Daryle’s name on the Memorial
Wall,
keeping one for myself and giving the rest to a number of my aunts. I was
doing okay
at this task until a little blond-haired girl wearing a white dress, put a
flower at the
base of a long row of names. This little girl, probably the grandchild of
one of the
deceased, brought back a flood of memories for me. Her actions caused me to
give
much thought to Daryle and some to those little Revolutionary War soldiers
made out
of pewter. I cried as I made a rubbing of Daryle’s name from that Wall of
names of
brave people who died doing their duty in the jungles of a foreign land.
It took me
a number of attempts before I was able to finish making the rubbings. The
Wall was something—all those names! I cried like I had never cried before.
I never thanked Daryle for the
little pewter soldiers. I never thanked Daryle for
serving this country well, for being willing to die for all of us back
home. Daryle died
for his country and for all the things it represents. People like Daryle
have made this
country what it is, the greatest place on earth.
For some reason I know, the way
people sometimes know things, that whenever I
thank a veteran, that Daryle hears me and understands that I am thanking
him, too.
Thank you.
©2001 Al Batt
71622 325 St.
Hartland, MN
56042
SnoEowl@aol. |
