Posts
After the dentist appointment I decided to drive directly to the mall where I had made plans to meet a friend for lunch. I would be early, but it would give me some time to walk around in the mall. During the drive I began noticing various police cars stationed at intersections. No lights, just men in uniform standing beside or sitting in their vehicles. After a few miles my interest was more than piqued, it was as if an important event was about to happen.
Further into the drive I noticed ordinary people lined up beside the road, on sidewalks, in front of their businesses, all quietly waiting, standing silently, solemnly. Coming into the business district yet more people lined the streets, firemen, police officers, hundreds of people lining the six lane highway on both sides, but more concentrated on the East-bound lanes. It reminded me of a parade route, only children were ominously missing. There was no joy, no laughter. I saw more and more American flags that varied in size from the largest requiring two or more men to hold it in the January breeze to the smallest flags held tightly in the grasp of the waiting patriots. I couldn't resist the temptation to witness whatever was going to happen, so I turned into a parking lot, grabbed my jacket and camera and looked around for the best possible place to wait.
The wind was crisp, cold even, and a chill swept through me as I braced myself against it pulling my light hoodie closed. I walked about fifty or so feet to the edge of the pavement and stood a little ways from the largest part of the crowd. Something clicked inside my head and I remembered hearing something about this on the early morning newscast. I understood now what the waiting was for. A hero was returning home. The crowds were honoring his return, paying respect in the only way that they knew how.
The longer I stood waiting the prouder I became that so many people had stopped everything to become a part of his homecoming. This community, these people, strangers to the man who would pass by, were all briefly united. No politics, no agendas, no discussions of right or wrong. I didn't see anyone protesting the war, no political signs, no one pursuing the crowds as we all waited. Everyone here, all of the hundreds of patriots that had lined up on this cold January morning along side a busy highway had only one intention and that was to honor this American hero.
It isn't too often that you feel that kind of spirit, the kind of concentrated effort of a large group of people from all walks of life. I was impressed by the quietness and simplicity; or maybe it was the raw emotion so easy to read on many of the faces. In a word the atmosphere was somber, quiet, even the traffic seemed unusually so. I stood there and experienced this entire event standing away from the crowd.
The sirens signaled that the procession was getting close. Sherriff's deputies, four cars, two abreast led the precession. They ignited their sirens and the intersections were closed for them to pass. There was a large gap in traffic, more sirens, and then I could see their approach. The lead vehicles were flying flags from the antennas and they rode with their windows down. The pace of the motorcade was slow, respectful in nature. The black hearse was next in the line driven by Army personnel dressed in their working uniform. Briefly, I wondered why they were not wearing a better uniform, one with more dignity; but I came to the conclusion that they were wearing their work uniform. I hoped that at least one of the soldiers seated in the front of the hearse might have been a friend bringing him home. I don't know if that is even done, but I did allow myself that hope. It just seemed wrong to me that he would be brought home by soldiers who were just doing their job with no connection to him emotionally.
Hand on heart, I stood there in the January sunshine with the wind at my back, my sun-glasses removed and I honored the man who passed before me. His family was in the next car which had tinted windows. The limousine gave them much deserved seclusion. Following the family was a couple of cars and then the motorcycles behind. It was a parade of sorts, a parade for a man who had given everything he had to give at only twenty-two years old. The family who would deal with their loss in the only way that they could, with prideful determination to just get through what the following few years days would bring. A community literally stood still, all in one mindset to honor that sacrifice. I felt pride in my community at that moment as I never had before. I felt part of something big.
As the hundreds of bikers passed, some of them dressed in their former military jackets, some decorated with flags, others just doing the only thing they could do for the man and his family; offering protection from media or protestors. I quickly snapped a picture of the bikers. I had read about the motorcycle clubs who participate in these processions and funeral services. I felt oddly ashamed that grieving families would need protection from protestors. There were a few active military in the procession on their bikes as well, and I think I was most proud to see that they were participating. This was something that brings their jobs and the danger of what they do home to them and their families in a way that few civilians understand.
Slowly, everyone returned to their day, their schedules, their lives. The roadway returned to its normal noise level with horns blaring and tempers flaring. I didn't get in my car alone though. I took something with me. Maybe it was pride of community, patriotism for my country, but most certainly sorrow that one so young had given his life in a place thousands of miles away, in a country where he might not have even understood the conflict.
You just never know what you will encounter during the normal course of your day. And today mine was marked with something that will stay with me for a while. There are no words that one can say to his family to accurately give measure to their sense of loss or grief. But perhaps, just maybe, this public display did show them they are not alone in their grief, allow them to see that, if only briefly. We all shared their loss while standing in the January chill on that blustery Wednesday morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment