There have been times during my travels that I have broken down to simple solemnity. Emotion drains away and I fall silent. That silence is an inner stillness, for as I walk, I think, heavily.
Mostly these moments come when I'm struck with the stories of fallen veterans.
Why such reverence? Family pride. While my grandfather was of the wrong age to join the fight in World War II, he did work at a local shipyard. He carried his ID card in his pocket for the rest of his life, into the 1990s. My dad, a true hero to me, joined the Marine Corps in 1966, full well knowing he was on his way to Vietnam. It scarred him for life, but he hid it well. That story is yet waiting to be told, and maybe someday will be.
In Chicopee, I stood among his comrades. The park is dedicated to the fallen Vietnam War warriors of the community, fifteen men lost between 1966 and 1970 with the Army, Navy and Marines in that horrid little conflict that changed America in so many ways. A sign bearing all fifteen names was dedicated in a grove of trees planted to represent each of the fifteen. The arrangement of the trees is eerily similar to the statues of the Korean War memorial on the mall in Washington D.C.; it feels as if the trees are a unit spread out and moving toward a destination, each one warily looking into the distance for a hidden enemy.
I've given out kudos jokingly along the way during this little project, but were I authorized to do so, I'd salute the people of Chicopee for a job well done.
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