BRETHREN

     They were not my brothers, those men of my generation standing nearby on a cold, blustery day in the nations capital. We were staring at a marble wall remembering a time when our waists may have been thinner and our hair thicker, in many cases much longer. The names on the wall were young men, boys really, whom we had known in that far-off time. Sometimes we knew them closely, sometimes more distantly. We had grown into comfortable middle age, they had not.

     We were a motley group, those of us among the living. We would have been a motley group back then, grooming standards being what they were. Some of us were wearing remnants of old uniforms, seemingly smaller than when first worn. Some of us had sleeveless denim vests festooned with patches and biker colors. Many of those patches were MIA/POW. Some of us were indistinguishable from the run-of-the-mill tourists on the mall. We had come to be in this spot to honor our memories, in some cases for catharsis.

      We were the last generation of young men who would use the word "draftee". We came of age at a time of protest and upheaval. We saw the Civil Rights movement, the Free-speech movement, the Anti-war movement, and later the Women's rights movement. We could have been part of, or opposed to any or all of these movements. Some of us still carried resentments. Whatever our past connections or our motivations, those names were a wound that would not heal.

     The sun was out but could not warm the brisk cool breeze that blew the cherry blossoms from the trees. The warm tears ran down our cheeks; we were helpless to stop them.

     The park ranger stood off to the side. He was Vietnam War era, and could wear old battle fatigues if he chose. He would provide a ladder for those wanting to make rubbings of the names at the highest portions of the wall; the wall that started knee-high and at ground level, and rose much higher from below ground level starting with 1964. The ranger was not there as a symbol of authority, but as a surrogate "buddy". He listened patiently as the memories tumbled out. He offered comforting words when he could and he withdrew to a respectful distance when he was not needed.

     Most affecting were the mementoes left at the base of the wall. Some of them would be gathered up at the end of each day and put on display. On this day I saw a pressed flower, a carnation that had been worn at a prom or a wedding. I saw a presentation case with a silver star and its ribbon. A hand-lettered sign read, simply, 

          

          "To those who did not get one that should have."

There were battle ribbons for the various battles that had been lethal to the names on the wall. And there was a child's blue umbrella that had been the possession of a grand-child that would never know his granddad.

     Washington DC is a city of monuments and memorials. Marble and granite clothe the city in dignity. Sometimes it honors the great national leaders who made history. Sometimes it honors the lesser beings who sacrificed so much to the history those national leaders made.