Monday Morning Report

It's Veteran's Day and our offices are closed.

It's Veteran's Day and I'd like to call my dad but I'm pretty sure "Happy Veteran's Day" isn't going to cut it and if I called to say, in that Hallmark card kind of way, "I'm thinking of you on Veteran's Day, Dad" that would just make him uncomfortable.

So I'm thinking of my dad, the pacifist, on Veteran's Day. I'm not sure what he thinks of a day like today. I know he doesn't want his long service to be forgotten. When I ask him if he would do that again, serve 25 years in the Air Force, he just says, "No. That was no way to raise a family."

I thought this morning about my young friend Thuy. A few years back I had called her to say hello and see how her college applications were going. She was a senior in high school here in St. Paul. Thuy is Vietnamese and a talented young writer (her junior high essay had been selected for the Voices for the Land contest).

I asked her how high school was going. "It's okay," she said, "but I'm ready to go to college. Yesterday my teacher stood in front of the class and said, 'Raise your hand if you're for the war in Iraq.' And then she said, 'Okay, now raise your hand if you're against the war.' And then that was it. No discussion. Just a counting of hands. I thought, 'Are you kidding? My father fought in the Vietnam war. My uncle died in that war.' A show of hands and nothing else?"

And then I thought of my cousin in-law Brian. He joined the Army Reserve to get college money and then became a firefighter in Nevada. He never thought he'd be called up to serve in Iraq. Maybe help out with natural disasters around the nation but not 18 months in the First Artillery Regiment in the Middle East. He was one of those first soldiers to storm Basra before the fall of Baghdad.

When he finally got orders to go home his wife, my cousin, met him in San Diego. His friends and family back in the L.A. suburbs had planned a big party for him that coming Friday. They had some extra tables brought in, balloons, a big signed card, lots of music and beer.

But the young couple hadn't seen each other in almost two years. On the drive back they got a call from one of his sisters reminding my cousin Kiley that she was signed up to bring napkins and plates and a side salad. It's okay if she hadn't made the salad but had she gotten the napkins and plates? The returning soldier saw his wife start to tremble and called my uncle, the big guy I've talked about who played offensive line for Florida State. The soldier said, "I can't go to this party." Uncle Larry called the sister, the party planner, and said, "Hey look. They're not making a fucking jello salad. They're not buying the plates, okay? He just spent two years in the worst goddamned place any of us can think of and you're asking them to bring a fucking jello salad? They want to see you and he's happy to be home, but they're not coming to the party. I bought them a hotel room in the city and they're staying there as long as they want until he's ready to come home."

And that was that. I heard Brian cried for two days in that hotel room.

So that's my somber Monday Morning Report. I'm going to go build a fire and read a little Wendell Berry and maybe call my dad now.