| Part 3 |
|
by Susan P. Schmidt Guest Columnist But, on this day, the Vietnam War came crashing home. What would we say to Mrs. Brooks? And Jimmy? Jimmy was out playing ball in no time. Maybe it was even that same day. I remember it was just him and me sitting on the warm up bench. His lanky legs bent up to shield his swollen eyes as his head dangled between his knees. Sometimes he twiddled his thumbs or drew pictures in the sand.
"Jimmy.....I'm really sorry about Bobby. I didn't know him or anything. But I know you...." Sometime before 1969, everything changed. Skateboards gave way to motorcycles. White bobbie socks were nerdish now. Fishnets and minis were "in". Charles was 18 and called Charlie now. I was 13. The family was gathered in the kitchen. I don't remember the words. Just the quiet angst and the tension tearing at me. They'd drawn the draft. Charlie chose to wait it out. To not enlist. He was never called. We all grew up and scattered to the wind. Jim healed as much as one can expect to. One Stevie became a doctor, the other a famous rock star. Danny was headed off to paint holding tanks. Bruce joined the Marines. Denny served in Vietnam, came home and lost his leg in a motorcycle crash. But, whatever our lives' course, we were changed the day the Vietnam War closed in on our ball field. Continued...
|
|