Today is Veterans Day. To be honest, for the vast majority of us, it’s one of those holidays where the mail doesn’t come and, if it lands midweek, the banks are closed, and we all wonder why.
Years ago, when the World War II generation was still around in great numbers, it was more significant because almost every family had a veteran or two in close proximity. There was a sincere pause and reflection on the cost of that service to the country and how we have all benefited from it.
In the generations since, the gap between the people who serve in the military and the rest of us has only grown wider and deeper. If I think of the military at all, it’s usually in the context of the unfathomable amount of cash the Pentagon blows through, the incessant demands for more, and a kind of “Dr. Strangelove” approach to ever more convoluted weapons systems.
There are dubious sounding missions in far-flung places seem to have no obvious purpose, yet young men and women are being exposed to very real dangers and sometimes death there. There is seldom a human face on it.
Often, when there is a human face attached, it’s somebody in a homeless camp, living on the streets, suffering from all manner of problems. That brings up the idea that we have a whole Cabinet level department in the federal government that is supposed to be taking care of people in that situation, and seems to be failing dismally at its primary obligation.
We can do better, not that I ever take time to write one of our useless congressional representatives about it. So I guess I could do better, too.
Tuesday at Rotary lunch, we had a short panel discussion among a combination of veterans who are members of the Rotary Club, and other members of the community, some still on active duty. The time and format didn’t allow much depth, but it was still moving.
There was an obvious and immediate bond among the panelists, who didn’t all know each other. They all knew each other’s experiences. That was enough. It was a short glimpse of a life so different from my own, described in a vocabulary that is so different from my own.
In a brief presentation, I was reminded at once of how tall the wall is between military experience and civilian life, and yet got a bit of understanding of what goes on behind the wall and the people who function in that different setting.
The separation between those who serve and the rest of us isn’t healthy for society. A division like that doesn’t help anybody. Veterans tend to keep their experiences to themselves, probably because they rightly assume the rest of us won’t understand, can’t understand, and become uncomfortable when confronted with the reality that they were dodging bombs while we were eating bonbons on the couch.
We had a guy who worked on the ranch for over 50 years. I knew he was a Korean War veteran — the experience really hurt him. He never spoke of it in years of working side by side. Not once. After the war, he retreated to his childhood home and worked in a safe, caring and closed loop at the ranch.
My aunt and uncle pulled him out of a dark emotional hole. When he died, there was a full military salute at the burial — a very dignified send-off for a guy who spent his life as a farm laborer. He deserved it.
I rent a house to a nice young family. I knew him as a responsible, hard working guy. He has a successful business and a solid family. I was in the house making some repairs and noticed a photo of him in uniform hanging in the kitchen. He was a Marine. Served in Afghanistan and a couple of other terrible places.
All I could muster was, “Wow, that’s cool.” It maybe explains why he always calls me “sir,” which I find kind of awkward, and says a lot about his work ethic. But I would never have known he was a Marine except for the dishwasher breaking. It just never came up.
It should. The vets among us shouldn’t be invisible or silent about it. Civilians may never comprehend the experience, but we ought to be aware that it exists outside of “Saving Private Ryan.”
The JiffyLube in Heber has photos of local vets taped to the wall in the waiting area. It’s not an elegant presentation or setting, but it’s a great reminder in a very normal context of those who have served. Their service is part of the general fabric of life, like oil changes and dishwasher replacements and small businesses. That visibility, even in the hallway at JiffyLube, helps bridge the divide.
“Thank you for your service” seems as hollow as “have a nice day.” I don’t comprehend what the service entailed, the challenges you faced, the things you’ve seen and done. All of that is outside the realm of my reality, while being a central part of yours. Still, to all you vets out there, thank you for your service. Don’t be so quiet about it.
Tom Clyde practiced law in Park City for many years. He lives on a working ranch in Woodland and has been writing this column since 1986.