He bent down gingerly, coaxing his aching bones and aging muscles towards the ground. He groaned as he retrieved his treasure and began the arduous process of stacking his 6’2” frame upright.
Seventy-eight years on the planet is a long time. It afforded him the opportunity to build hydroplanes from scratch and tinker with Austin Healy cars as a young man. Back then, and for years to come, speed was king. As was building machines and things imagined in his head.
The adrenaline rush followed him to Vietnam, where he silently endured relentless hill climbs under the hot jungle canopy. He honed his spidey-senses there, an inheritance passed down from a native American great-grandparent he never knew. In ‘Nam, he learned to read the land, looking for signs of broken twigs, trip wires, punji sticks, high and low ground cover, and NVA ambushes. One time, he told her that he and his buddy, Fletcher, got good at killing.
He returned home to have the media and the entire nation shun and spit on him for his patriotism and service to country. The anti-war machine didn’t provide many job opportunities for rotten veterans. Like many of his peers, he watched in silence as professors at the local college downgraded his work without cause. He was a veteran; that would cost him. On cold days, the pain of disrespect leaks out still. Sometimes, the pencil-sized hole above his right eye that holds shrapnel and his emotions ache terribly. He says nothing.
Stateside, he built three families and has been blessed with five children and five stepchildren. His dream for each was to teach them self–mastery and self–reliance. This man, who lived through the horrors of jungle combat, knew all too well the cost of crossing the line and ending a human being’s life.
He celebrated his children, albeit mostly in silence. He wanted them to soldier on with confidence and build a future they would love.
When his boys were twelve, he had them dig a giant hole outside the bedroom window. The hole measured 6’x 8’ x 4’. It was dug in the humid hades heat of mid-July. It kept the squirrely boys from getting into mischief, he said, once. He taught them to hand-mix cement. The three of them worked in silence to cover the dirt in the hole with fresh cement. Behind the hole, he built a stone wall of flat limestone gathered on the side of the road with these kids. Inside the wall, he laid pipes and pumps. He beamed with pride the day he turned everything on. His children witnessed the creation of a stunning hand-built waterfall, a thing of beauty created from thin air and his imagination. All their goldfish won at the fair moved into this palatial pond. The boys stood in awe next to their dad; each helping the other make the world a prettier place.
His wife stood in awe as well but for different reasons. She knew the backstory. He had run point along a long creek bed, flanked on either side by steep jungle-covered ridges. Inside the thick pea soup trees sat the NVA, waiting for their opportunity to pounce. He hated the sound of trickling water, he said, once. So, to slay that demon he built a tiny waterfall outside his bedroom window. He also built a concrete domed home, that looks like a hobbit house, in the woods on top of a ridge line, under the military crest of the hill.
She knew what it meant that evening by the beach on an island in the north of Michigan. As the waves gently lapped ashore, she knew what it meant for him to stop, bend down, pick up a smooth grey-black rock the size of a bar of soap, and hand it to her, silently.
In that instant, she saw the happy child God had created so long ago, before the silence and need to protect one’s self from others took over.
It’s not easy being married to a gentle giant trained to kill. It’s not easy being married to someone who was denied opportunity because he fought as asked. It’s not easy being married to a man whose only son, a twin, passed away unexpectedly at age 34 in May 2019. It’s not easy watching a silent man grow more silent after losing his son Fletcher, named after his buddy from Vietnam. Some days are harder than others. Some days, the demons rage, a lot.
So, she knew what it took for him to tap into that raw emotion while reaching for the perfect stone, and hand it over as a gesture of love. In silence.
The next morning, she read him this story as they sipped their coffee and sat by the campfire next to the beach. In typical fashion, he stared at the ground saying nothing while she spoke. A long pause ensued. She thought about the many traits he shared with the native American Chief Black Elk. Stoic, a man of few words and few outward reactions, one who is both deeply caring and deeply wounded by life.
Finally, he broke his silence. Raising his head, he glanced at his wife out of the corner of his eye and said his peace: “It’s a pretty rock!”
