I have thought a lot about George lately, one of my ghosts from a past that has been lucky enough to span decades. Luckily, George has never been a triggered recollection, just a benign spectral from my misdirected youth. For now, just call him George, though his full name and rank are etched in black granite in Constitution Gardens in Washington, DC, on Panel 26E, Line 48.
George - www.vvmf.org/Wall-of-Faces
A George reminiscence might show up anytime, but on Memorial Day weekend, count on it, with self-isolation rock the perfect soundtrack. I was listening to Buffalo Springfield, the Stones and Creedence last week from a favorite Vietnam era remix and there he was. Ageless, innocent, 19-years old.
Our lifelines barely crossed, only once as a matter of fact, in the summer of 1965. We were the essence of "bottom-rung", both stuck in McDonald's hell, slogging out our last summer at minimum wage before we had to take LBJ’s draft seriously. Neither of us were Fortunate Sons, just navigating the grinds of adolescence, topped off by the daily preoccupations and upheavals of a foreshadowed war in Vietnam.
Aside from the shared angst of uncertain futures we had virtually nothing in common. Hometown parents and teachers must have loved George, a reserved, hard-working math-club type, straight A student, from a no-frills Catholic family. Two years older, my life was his parallel universe in miniature. An unbridled college freshman, I was committed to not much more than the next weekend and a draft-deferred GPA at Louisiana Tech. Nevertheless, George looked up to me.
Our lifelines barely crossed, only once as a matter of fact, in the summer of 1965. We were the essence of "bottom-rung", both stuck in McDonald's hell, slogging out our last summer at minimum wage before we had to take LBJ’s draft seriously. Neither of us were Fortunate Sons, just navigating the grinds of adolescence, topped off by the daily preoccupations and upheavals of a foreshadowed war in Vietnam.
Aside from the shared angst of uncertain futures we had virtually nothing in common. Hometown parents and teachers must have loved George, a reserved, hard-working math-club type, straight A student, from a no-frills Catholic family. Two years older, my life was his parallel universe in miniature. An unbridled college freshman, I was committed to not much more than the next weekend and a draft-deferred GPA at Louisiana Tech. Nevertheless, George looked up to me.
After hours of flipping burgers and scraping grease, our idle conversation occasionally touched on our tenuous prospects, like this one time. “Hey, George, thought about where you’re going to college?” A National Honor Society and California Scholarship Federation standout like George should be able to write his own ticket.
Read complete article on Substack.
Read complete article on Substack.