Vietnam

I can remember growing up in Copperas Cove, Texas just on the outskirts of Fort Hood. Home of the Third Armored Division and more. My Dad was stationed there from 1963 to when he retired in 1970. But I can't say I remember much about him during those years. He went to Vietnam twice, 1965 to 1967 and 1968 to 1970. He also was sent to some temporary deployments too. I can't remember where they were. He would be home and then gone again in what seemed like one day to me. To me he was essentially gone. Vietnam standard duty for so many of our Dads and mine wasn't any different. Most of our Dads eventually came home but we always knew that the next time they might not. Everyone knew at least one person who lost their Dad to Vietnam. It just wasn't talked about. The only talking about Vietnam was done on the news by people who weren't there or only went to make a name for themselves. I would see Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite on the news and they would talk about Vietnam or Cambodia and all the political crap surrounding those battles. Then a lonely graphic would appear about once a week during the newscast showing so many Americans dead but always emphasizing the number of Chinese was higher. Did it really matter to us kids what the difference in dead soldiers was to the Chinese? Hell no! We just wanted our Dads to come home and maybe just maybe they would be all right. Every trip I ever made to the doctor between 1963 and 1974 was at an Army hospital, Darnell Army Medical. Every time I sat in the same waiting rooms that always had wounded soldiers watching TV or reading or what ever. And most of them weren't just mildly wounded, these were men that had arms or legs missing, bandages still wrapped around their face. and casts on limbs sitting in wheelchairs. There were so many I'm sure the hospital didn't have the space for them. Did anyone ever ask me how I felt about that? No. Did anyone ever ask how I felt about my Dad being in Vietnam so long? No. Did they ever offer to give counseling? No. Did anyone even care about all those men that didn't come home or the ones that did but were missing legs and arms? No. I don't ever recall the news talking about those stories. My Dad came home one day. But I could tell in that brief period of time, he had changed. He bought a truck and a shotgun the next day. He took me squirrel hunting with that new shotgun. It was the first time he had ever taken me hunting. No squirrels that morning as the Army was doing flight maneuvers right over the stretch of woods we were hunting. Then he packed the truck and was gone. In my memory it was the next day but I am not sure. It has been nearly forty years since he left and he is still quiet about what he saw there. I am sure he will take his thoughts and memories of Vietnam to his grave. I often have wondered just what was it he saw or what were the things he did that compelled him to put in for his retirement while still in Vietnam. I do respect what he did for our nation and I respect the Army. I even tried enlisting myself but that crack on my skull kept me out (remember the brain damage post). I didn't even get the steak dinner the recruiter had promised me. But now I write my memories instead of re-living my Dad's.

Dawn

When I was in grade school growing up in central Texas, it was important to have a good wide receiver in football. Texas was all about football, that also included street football. We played all year long only quitting long enough to play some baseball too. That's where Dawn comes in. She lived about five houses down the street from my house, she could run faster than any of us and catch anything thrown her way. A natural athlete she was. She was always the first to get picked no matter what was being played. I remember her as a small to medium build girl, long blond hair, a few freckles and blue eyes. We played together for more than seven years or so that I can recall.

Brain Damage

Concussion, definition from WordNet: injury to the brain caused by a blow; usually resulting in loss of consciousness, any violent blow.

I often joke about having brain damage and usually point to a prominent scar on my forehead. This particular occasion involved 23 stitches and several more that were internal. Cracked it all the way through the skull. My brother-in-law was the first to see me, sitting on the bathroom sink blood poring down my face and into my eyes as I was trying my best to see just how much damage I had inflicted upon myself. I remember him saying it didn't look good. I can't recall if he called 911 or drove me to the hospital but I do remember being under the lights. Doctors and nurses hovering over me telling me it would be okay. Now I bet you are wondering just how did I get this nasty gash on my head. Well it started the day before while I was working at the Bonwood Bowl. I had injured my knee the day before and was on crutches. It was a Sunday morning and I was alone in the house as Mom had gone to church. I can remember it was one of the hotter days Utah had had for July in that year and Mom didn't have an air conditioner or even a swamp cooler back then. I can't recall the exact year but it must have been 1976 or 1977 since I had left working for the Bonwood before the summer of 1978. I had taken a pain pill for the knee and was trying to make a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. I was using only a single crutch to hobble about when I felt all the blood in my head leaving and the feeling of light headiness overcame me. I crashed head first into the ceramic tile lining the picture window of the kitchen. A floor fan broke my fall as I stumbled or I surely would have gone straight through the window and most surely died. It would have been several hours before Mom would have returned from church and the glass on this window was double paned. So instead of the glass slicing me up I cracked head first into the tile. Broke a chunk off too. Pretty impressive impact! I was not quite knocked out but could see in tunnel vision. I dragged myself down the hallway and grabbed a washcloth from the hall clost and my phone before falling onto my bed. I don't know why I didn't call 911. I called my sister's house. They just walked in the door as their phone rang. I was bleeding heavily and I can remember the feeling of shock overcoming me. It tingles like a nervous twitch about to run up your spine except this was all over and didn't quit. Luckily I remembered first aid training from Boy Scouts and proceeded to apply pressure to the gash and covered myself with a blanket. I stayed covered up on the bed until I had the bright idea to crawl to the bathroom and get a look at myself. That is how Greg found me, sitting on the sink trying to look at the cut. So now, some thirty years later, I can joke about this and claim I have brain damage anytime I goof something up or I feel like acting silly.