My mom had a younger cousin that died in Vietnam. Whenever Vietnam was on the news, she would remind us that she had a cousin that died in Vietnam and then she would start praying.
This guy would have been my second cousin and was probably around twenty when I was born. I heard his name constantly as a kid, but can’t remember it to save my life today.
His gramma was my great gramma and she lived in an old farm house in Greensburg, Indiana. She lived to be 101 and we visited her often during my youth. Her front room had ugly old wallpaper and portraits of my relatives hanging everywhere. The one picture set aside from all of the others was my second cousin who died in Vietnam.
I can’t think of this kids name.
Most of the people who knew him, who loved him are all together in heaven.
The house in the small Indiana town was sold years ago. The smell of pipe tobacco gone and all of the pictures packed away.
Even though I can’t remember my cousin’s name and I can’t call my mom to ask her…
…his memory lives in my heart.
Not the memory of knowing him because he died when I was a toddler, but the memory of how he was missed and how my family mourned his loss.
My second cousin would be in his late seventies or early eighties, “if some gook in a rice paddy didn’t shoot him.” He’d be waiting to die of old age with his middle aged kids looking in on him. I would have bumped into him at family gatherings, weddings and funerals.
Maybe my older second cousin would have played catch with me when we drove down to visit in Greensburg? Maybe we would have sat on the porch swing at Gramma Stier’s house? Maybe sharing stories of surviving enemy fire in Vietnam? Maybe he would have been my confirmation sponsor?
My second cousin never did any of these things. He never flipped bratwurst on the grill or handed me a cold beer out of his ice bucket. He wasn’t at my graduations or my mom’s funeral either…
…but the Hoosier with the big ears and the skinny neck will always live in my memory.
I’m going to listen to patriotic music this morning. I do it every Memorial Day because that was what my dad did. He cried when the bugle played “Taps” and he would make everyone stand quietly with hand on heart if our “National Anthem” played.
Yesterday before the biggest spectacle in racing, I did the same thing. I cried during “Taps” and the Archbishop’s prayer and I made the Shepkids stand during our National Anthem. I’m just as fucking crazy as Grampa Don.
That is how we do things over here. We worship Jesus, we raise the flag and we give respect to those who sacrificed their lives for this great country….
Be astonished and put the smile on the sun today.
