Back in the late 1990s, I received one of those fill-in-the-blank emails intended to enable friends to know each other better. One of the questions I'm sure is now familiar to all: "If you could have dinner with three people, living or dead, who would they be and why?" Being who I am, I immediately typed, "Why would I want to have dinner with dead people?!"
Then my mind flooded with memories, and I deleted my flippant answer. Three people stood out, like lights in the midnight blackness: author Richard Brautigan, because he was a continual inspiration to my creative writing; my PaPa, because I had forgotten the sound of his voice; and my neighbor Chuck, still missing from the Vietnam War, because I wanted him to know that I hadn't forgotten his sacrifice.
The day Chuck's family, and mine, heard the news is still crystal clear in my mind, though I was only ten years old. There was a knock at the front door, and I answered it. It was Chuck's mother-in-law from next door, and she was sobbing. I let her in, then turned as my mother entered the front room from behind me and said, "Go in yonder!"
I fled to the back part of the house. One of my older sisters was in our bedroom, and the oldest one, who knew Chuck's family the best, was in the bathroom. I pounded on the bathroom door and announced the first of what I now call my psychic flashes: "Chuck's been shot down! He's missing!" The bathroom door flew open as my sister pulled up her clothes, and both sisters joined me in the hallway.
"What happened? How do you know?" they demanded. I said, "Mrs. _______ just came over, and she's crying!" My oldest sister asked, "What did she say?" I paused in momentary confusion. "I don't know, she didn't say anything, she's talking to Mommy." "What did you overhear?" she asked. "Nothing," I replied, "I just know." That was when she slapped me.
My sisters may remember this differently; after all, they were older. But in my memory, that's how it happened. It was the one and only time in my life that my sister ever hit me.
After our neighbor left, my mother came to us. "Mrs._______ was just here. Chuck's been shot down. He's missing in action." Both of my sisters slowly turned their heads toward me, their eyes wide. But then we began to cry. Our hearts had taken their first real blow. My mother walked away, not knowing what else to say.
Time went by slowly at first. Both sisters looked at me strangely for a while. I played with Chuck's kids, as usual. But all of us were forever changed. I was finally aware of the war, and I started paying attention to the television coverage. I cried for Chuck's children. The youngest was very young and hardly remembered his father, but he would talk to me about him sometimes. (I remember being told that when Chuck was about to ship out overseas, his youngest child locked all the doors and windows so his daddy couldn't leave).
I wore a POW-MIA bracelet for Chuck for a long time. The bracelet was a metal band, nickle-plated, and about a half-inch wide. It was imprinted with his name, rank, and the date he went missing. That bracelet became as much a part of me and who I am as a wedding ring does to a married woman. I never took it off. My sisters and our friends wore his bracelets, too.
Eventually, the bracelet began irritating my skin, as moisture was always trapped beneath it. I had to take it off, and it was severely corroded inside. So my mother got me a new one and I thoroughly coated the inside of it with clear nail polish so it wouldn't corrode again. But over time, the polish wore off, and I had to have another bracelet. This one I not only coated with clear nail polish, but I also removed it before taking a bath. But taking it off frequently weakened the middle of the band, and ultimately it broke in half right through Chuck's name. (I still have the two pieces, I just don't know where). I don't recall how many years had passed since Chuck went missing when that bracelet broke. And my last bracelet has a place of honor on my living room shelf.
As I got older, I began to babysit Chuck's children. I remember when they told me how to make coffee: half coffee, half milk, and half sugar!
And when Chuck was declared legally dead, I cried again.
As more years went by, I knew that Chuck had only three possible fates: 1) He was now dead; 2) He was a prisoner of war; or 3) He had been a prisoner of war, and it had so changed him that he hadn't come home. I talked about him with new friends. I purchased POW-MIA bumper stickers. I wore POW-MIA pins. I prayed for him and his family. And I never forgot, although our families moved and drifted apart.
Several years ago, I reconnected with Chuck's wife and his youngest child. And now we keep in contact maybe twice a year or so. Chuck's mother is gone, his mother-in-law is gone, and my mother is gone.
Very recently, the unbelievable happened. Chuck's wife received word from the military that the wreckage of Chuck's plane had been found, along with a small amount of human remains. DNA confirmed that the bones were Chuck's. The waiting is over. He had died before we knew he was missing. And I am thankful to God that Chuck never had to endure a prison camp.
This one man, who left his family to die for his country, is part of who I am today. And the interesting thing is, I never met Chuck. He moved his family into the house next door, then left for Vietnam.
But Chuck, I remember you.
(Image from http://woodstockamericanlegionpost1026.org/POWMIA.html)
(For information on the history of POW-MIA bracelets, click here.)
