I come from a long line of American veterans who served our nation. My earliest ancestor was a captain in the Virginia Colonial military, and the family line of service has carried in every war with my father serving in the Army in World War II and Korea and me in the Vietnam Air War. We are good examples of citizen soldiers.
The concept of the citizen soldier became deeply rooted in American culture as a reminder that in a democracy, the privileges of citizenship and the responsibility of military service were interconnected. All veterans, both past and present, are considered citizen soldiers. This means that even if they pursued a military career, it was only a part of their life. They later returned to their local communities for a second career. Their duty as citizens was to serve the country that had given them so much. This idea is timeless: If one receives much, one should give back.
If we were to travel back to America’s past, we would find a society that was quite different from today. Most Americans lived in rural areas and focused on farming and home life with little year-to-year change. Men rarely left their homes, leading to a demanding and somewhat monotonous life. The first citizen soldiers served in the militias and returned home to tell of their service. These stories created a romanticized view of war as an adventure and noble cause, which continued through various wars. However, World War II veterans rarely spoke about their combat experiences, and the Vietnam War posed significant challenges for returning veterans.
In the years following Vietnam, though, there has been a positive shift in attitudes toward veterans, with increasing recognition and gratitude for their service. It has become customary to publicly express heartfelt gratitude to our veterans, and programs like Honor Flight go above and beyond to provide special trips that honor their invaluable contributions. Locally, we have the New York State Veterans Cemetery-Finger Lakes. This hallowed site holds deep historical significance as the former Sampson Naval Training Station and Sampson Air Force Base, where countless received training during World War II and the Korean War.
Despite the change in attitudes toward veterans, many people are still unaware of the sacrifices and experiences of those who have served in the military. Veterans often express that they have given our nation a blank check. This commitment is also shared in the civilian world by first responders, such as firefighters and police, who understand the special bond forged through mutual trust. Over the years, we have heard countless stories of bravery and courage under fire in every armed forces branch. We have also heard reports of service members who have gone above and beyond the call of duty. It is expected that those who serve are willing to sacrifice everything to protect their fellow citizens, and this level of commitment has been expected since the birth of our country.
My friend, a retired Lt. Colonel, wrote this about our service and what it meant to him long ago:
“We’ve danced together … on the silver tops of a cloud-carpeted sky. This dance, with pride, will be tearfully missed. To those who know what it is to care about brothers to the degree that you would die with them, nothing more can be said.”
There are three watchwords for military men and women who have served: duty, honor, and country. In the early 1960s, General Douglas MacArthur famously pronounced these words, and each veteran understands them differently. For me, duty meant dedication. I have always thought of honor as trust. Country means loyalty—loyalty to something greater than oneself. These three words—duty (dedication), honor (trust), and country (loyalty)—guide one in a career and life. When I taught at the Air Force Academy, we discussed these concepts. Cadets then took great pride in their honor code, which stated that they would not cheat, lie, or steal and would not tolerate those who did. They expected the best in others all the time. One needs to be able to respect and trust those with whom one serves. It is the same for fellow veterans.
An essential unspoken rule is respect for each veteran’s experiences. Every veteran talks of their service and has a whole collection of stories based on their military time. Some are very funny, some are exciting, some amazing, and some sad. These are personal stories that they share with only a few close friends. These stories fit this category: “If you’ve been there, you understand…” . Today, few Americans have served or are associated with the military. They have no idea what we, as armed services members, have done for our nation. But among us, these stories create a bond, a shared understanding that transcends individual experiences.
Sometimes, a story or statement made by a veteran may be questioned by the listener.
You might need clarification if I were to tell you that I was part of the Air Force from 1962-1989, 1966-1989, or 1968-1989. But each statement has an element of truth. In the first, I include ROTC as part of my Air Force time; in the second, I narrowed it down to the period from when I received my commission as a second lieutenant to my retirement; and in the last, it was my time on active duty until I retired. One might think I am lying, but in my mind, all were correct as I was part of the Air Force not necessarily serving.
If I tell you I served in the United States Air Force Honor Guard, you might look at me and scoff, thinking I might be lying. The Guard comprises men at least 6 feet tall, built like movie stars, who do not wear glasses. On the other hand, I am short (5 feet, 5 inches), built like a fireplug, and wear glasses. Well, for one half day in 1968, I served as one of their new Air Force Honor Guard officers. But then someone saw I still needed to meet the physical requirements. My brief service was due to a mistake by Air Force personnel assigning me there.
Assuming the best of our fellow veterans and acknowledging their service is fundamental to upholding the values of duty, honor, and country. The service and the sacrifices they’ve made can sometimes be misunderstood by those who haven’t experienced military life. It’s crucial to listen with respect and empathy, acknowledging the depth of their experiences and the profound significance of their contributions to our nation.
According to those who know, we are members of the Silent Generation (born 1928-1945). These folks exhibit the following characteristics: traditional values, such as hard work, loyalty, and thriftiness; financial prudence, interpersonal respect, determination, a strong work ethic, and self-sacrifice. While I agree with sociologists about the above, some of us born in this group are on the cusp of two generations, with one foot in the past of the Greatest Generation and one in the future, as exhibited by the Baby Boomers.
The Greatest Generation (born 1901-1927) were our parents who lived through and experienced the hardships of the Great Depression and later either fought in World War II or worked in the industries that contributed to winning the war. If we shared the effects of these events, it was in how our parents raised us. Thus, we got many of the traditional values mentioned above from them. But we were not our parents. We had our challenges.
When we were young, Americans went to fight in Korea. Many of these soldiers were our older siblings. Conflict defines a significant part of our lives. We who grew up in the 1950s would later find ourselves engaged in combat in Vietnam. War defined our formative years. Part of this era was the period of “McCarthyism.” During this time, many people in the United States feared communist spies or communist sympathizers. Because of this fear, some government officials began screenings and trials to determine loyalty. Many citizens were accused and lost their careers, and some were imprisoned. We also witnessed the fruition of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s during our teen years. Nearly all the great leaders of the civil rights movement were a part of our group. Lastly, American politics turned dark also as we came of age in the 1960s, with three assassinations (JFK, MLK, and RFK), increasing protests in the streets, and turmoil against the war in Vietnam, where many brave members of our generation lost their lives.
The early Boomers (1946-1952) shared our experience.
Baby Boomers represented a boom in the birth rate after World War II, as soldiers returned home and birth rates worldwide spiked. The explosion of infants became known as the baby boom (1945-1964), when 76 million babies were born in the United States alone. Because there were so many Boomers, they came to dominate life and culture in America. This has led to both good and bad consequences. Good: increase in wages, thriving businesses, and increased variety and quantity of consumer products. Bad: The boomers remain a powerful force in the U.S. economy as the longest-living generation in history so far, and rising life expectancy makes it likely that they’ll spend more time in retirement than their parents did, raising concerns about the ongoing viability of the Social Security system and traditional pension systems.
So, there we are, straddling both worlds—not quite the Greatest Generation or the Baby Boomers. We can share in the past, but we are part of the present. We value heroes such as Neil Armstrong; our American way of life, as codified in the Constitution, and we understand that change is vital and good for our nation. We, indeed, are products of the many changes in the past that have shaped us and modified our views.
So, my wife and I look forward to when we will be past 80 and to what those coming years will bring.
Tom Lucas’ engaging new novel about the Vietnam War has a most unusual title: Raging Mice. Raging refers to a Rager. For a certain generation, a Rager was a party or event with a great deal of alcohol. Mice scurry about, for the most part, and live their lives or less undetected, much like the lower ranks of the military, who live their lives below the radar of the officers and others in authority.
Most Americans have never experienced warfare. They tend to think of men “being in war,” as being in such as World War II or Korea. Moreover, for the most part, this is true; men are in war. But not necessarily part of the combat of war. So, being in the war is not the same as being part of the war. If one participated in combat, it occupied their thoughts and actions 24 hours a day. If one is simply in the rear area or part of a support group, an attack might bring the war home, but most likely, one simply passes the time, more or less in a state of quiet desperation, dealing with the “dislocation from the familiar” that being in a war zone brings.
In his novel, Lucas introduces the reader to American soldiers during the Vietnam War who used drugs, sex, and alcohol to escape from the “real, monotonous, and brutal imprisonment of Vietnam.” In telling this story, he draws on his experiences as a decorated Vietnam veteran, but this is no autobiographical novel; it is simply based on his own experiences. This novel, then, is an impressionist piece set during the months that led to the 1968 Tet Offensive. The story focuses on army enlisted forces and draftees (the mice of the story) that rage daily against the place and events they face. While it is easy to see this as an enlisted problem during the Vietnam War, all ranks used sex, alcohol, and even drugs as elements to escape from being away from home and stuck in a war that many did not support.
War is so foreign that most Americans face many physical and emotional issues in dealing with it. Montony is prime; it wears down even the most ardent supporters of the war. One can look at many previous war stories, from South Pacific to MAS*H, to see that boredom and monotony take a toll on all involved. Lucas correctly portrays the Vietnam War. If one is not engaged in battle 24 hours a day, it is very tedious to be removed from home and family. The mice of the story self-medicate and deal with this tedium.
Coupled with the monotony is the feeling of being trapped in a foreign place for an extended period. All soldiers counted the days they had left before returning to “the world” or the US. Lucas puts it this way: “Feeling little organic connection to a war officially described as a conflict, we were united not by any global imagination of East versus West or communism versus democracy but by the humble focus on staying alive until our personal “alarm clock” rang out the end of each soldier’s twelve-month sentence.”
There was also an internal turmoil of the Vietnam War that few supported. Lucas notes: “For many of us, there was a lack of that political and psychological clarity reminiscent of past wars such as the American Civil War and World Wars I and II. Many of the younger men, so recently boys, experienced an air of dislocation as well as surreality that sporadically punctuated the dull routines with unexpected events for which one can never quite be prepared.”
Lucas graduated from Hobart College in Geneva, NY, in 1974, where he majored and excelled in creative writing. It is not clear if he suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, one on-line site says he did. He notes in the epilog that one of his characters, “ struggled upon returning home. Isolating himself from former friends as well as family, he eventually sought help. His symptoms were eventually diagonosed as post-traumatic stress disorder…. After several years of treatment, he regained some semblance of health.”
Like so much of this work, it is perhaps a window into Lucas own life, for every veteran who was part of a war, as Lucas was combat infantryman and earned a bronze star, could not escape PTSD. This is a strong novel written with strong and raw language, in that it also opens a window into all who were there experienced in Vietnam.
In his remarkable memoir of the Second World War: Quartered Safe Out Here, George MacDonald Fraser shares his experiences in the Burma Campaign as a 19-year-old private in the Border Regiment fighting the Japanese during 1944-45. In this work, he deals with many of the universal experiences of men in combat; he notes:
Nobody in his right mind longs for battle or sudden death.
But once you’ve trod the wild ways, you can never get them out of your system.
Fifty years ago, this week, I returned home from Thailand, having spent the first four months of my year there flying combat missions over Cambodia.
The day I left the war zone lingers in my mind. On 19 April 1974, I boarded a “Freedom Bird” heading home. That day, my friends turned out to see me off as I returned to “The World,” as we called it. G.I.s had performed this ritual many times since the war began.
“Sawadee, the Thais said, meaning goodbye and hello,” as if we were always together.
We popped champagne and passed it around. Friends placed Thai Sawadee necklaces around my neck, and my friends said more quick goodbyes. It was all so fast, almost a blur, and then over. I boarded the “Freedom Bird” aircraft taking us home, stowed my carry-on gear, and strapped in for takeoff. The C-141 aircraft, full of men and women of all ranks and specialties, taxied into position and began the takeoff roll: Udorn, where I had lived, rushed by the windows.
Goodbye to Thailand.
The bird broke ground. Like a volcano erupting, a huge cheer roared through the airframe. “SAWADEE,” we were on our way home. Sawadee didn’t mean goodbye; it meant we would always be together. I did not fully understand what always being together meant at the time.
Today, I know it is PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Many men and women from Korea, Vietnam, and the Afghanistan-Iraq war eras have experienced PTSD. While my family probably doesn’t think I have PTSD, I do. To be clear on this, anyone who was in combat experiences some form of PTSD. This condition was called “shell shock” during World War I and “combat fatigue” in World War II. PTSD can involve thoughts, memories, distressing dreams, or flashbacks of events. Flashbacks may be so vivid that people relive traumatic experiences. PTSD is a spectrum of reactions ranging from a bit of difficulty adjusting to non-combat or civilian life to severe depression that may lead to suicide.
There are many resources for those still trying to deal with this experience, and it is essential to seek help. One of the most valuable resources is the American Institute of Stress. The institute has a connection to Geneva: Dr. Kathy Platoni. A practicing clinical psychologist, Dr. Platoni retired from the U.S. Army with the rank of Colonel in October of 2013 and is a graduate of William Smith College (B.S., 1974). As an Army Reserve clinical psychologist, she deployed on four times in war and is a survivor of the tragic Ft. Hood Massacre in November 2009. Dr. Platoni works with the military, first responders, and others who served in combat or have experienced other trauma. She is considered one of the leading experts in treating PTSD in the country. Anyone having issues with combat or other trauma should check out the American Institute for Stress, found online at https://www.stress.org/.
Time in combat changes one.
For me, it included many things: honing my flying skills in the F-4, learning to deal with the world of combat, and being away from my wife, which was a difficult thing to do. It also meant dealing with coming home.
It was hard to leave these men I had gotten to know so well. We ate together, flew together, celebrated together, and shared some amazing experiences in the air. When we had finished flying, we shared a few brews—well, maybe more than a few. I never again experienced a bond like the one we forged in combat. I will never forget that time so long ago.
It is true: “… once you’ve trod the wild ways, you can never get them out of your system.”
In 1966 I was commissioned a 2nd Lt. through my college ROTC program, and then went to graduate school. While there my vision changed and I could no longer pass a flight physical. By 1968, I went on active duty at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C. , I found myself in the base plans office, working in a command post, most certainly not as exciting as the future I had hoped for flying.
1968 became 1969, and then 1970. It was boring, and unless something happened, it was clear that I had no future in the air force. None, and I knew it. Yet, the idea of flying never went away. I knew I had to get into flying training if I wanted a career. I read the Air Force Times weekly, went to the personnel office, and checked about entering the navigator training school. My vision was still too bad to pass the pilot flight physical, but almost close enough for a navigator. This seemed to be a lost cause for a while, but I never gave up. I desperately wanted to fly. I learned that the vision requirements for navigator training had changed. I applied for navigator school. Once again, I took another flight physical; this time, I passed. I was finally going to fly. Before me lay a time to prove to myself and others that I could do many things I never imagined. And I honestly had no idea of what lay ahead. I knew navigators guided aircraft on missions from old war movies, but that was all I knew. I did not realize that I was on the first rung of a very tall ladder. But I knew I could do the job now that I had the opportunity.
I left D.C. in late October 1971 and began the long cross-country drive to Sacramento. I had never taken so long a drive. Looking back now, after more than 50 years, I am amazed that it went so well. I had a brand-new car – a 1971 Mustang and road maps. That is how I navigated.
My route took me from D.C. down to Texas and then across New Mexico and Arizona to California. I had planned to visit my aunt and uncle and then drive up the interstate to Sacramento. Later, I would learn that this was the Big Valley of California, and this drive would stay with me.
I remember driving up the valley that last day before I entered UNT. My Aunt and Uncle lived in near Los Angeles. As I headed north up I-5, I passed many of the bigger towns of the Valley, by Bakersfield, near Fresno, Modesto, Stockton, and finally over and up to Sacramento. I have to admit I was not impressed with what I saw. California was brown and the towns had a lived in look to them. At the time, it did not seem so consequential, but it was clearly the road to the future. And it was a foreshadowing of a nav training route Overland South that I would get to know well flying that route in the T-29 many, many times while I was training (I later flew it as an IN on the T-43 aircraft, as well).
I arrived at Mather for Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) in early November. I had never seen so many “brown bars.” I had not attended officer training school (OTS), and at Bolling, we had only one or two second lieutenants at any time. At Mather, there were tall ones, short ones, some with glasses and some without them. Some had been in pilot training and washed out. Still, others had no prior experience, but all wanted to fly. One thing was clear: they were everywhere.
Assigned to the 3538th Navigator Training Squadron (NTS) in casual status (C.S)., I had nothing to do. The only thing that could move this along was the regs (regulations) that governed the training. I pointed out that I would turn 27 ½ in about two weeks, the cut-off to enter training, and suddenly, they found a slot for me. Another student joined C.S., and I moved to the top of the list, which meant I would graduate in the summer of 1972. I entered the UNT program on 11 December 1971, a week short of my 27 ½ birthday. However, first I had to take one more flight physical, my third that year. I will never forget the advice one brown bar gave me as we stood in line: “Never tell the flight surgeon anything that might disqualify you.” Not necessarily lie, but don’t volunteer information. Words I remembered my entire flying career.
Mather, like other flying training bases, was bursting at the seams. The Air Force felt increasing pressure to produce aircrews for the needs of the Vietnam War. I later learned we had ten captains, five first lieutenants, and 77 second lieutenants in my class. They divided the class into four flights, and the captains, the older men of the group, became flight commanders, a mostly ceremonial post. But being a military organization, rank determined the pecking order—interestingly, some of the captain students were senior to the captain instructor navs (INs).
In 1982, I returned to Mather and was assigned to the 451st Flying Training Squadron (FTS). It was still the Mather I remembered in many ways, and there were still second lieutenants everywhere. Some of the base support folks tended to dismiss them as not important. I noticed this more the second time than when I was a captain. They treated them like they didn’t know anything, a.k.a. the brown bar treatment.
One day, now a Lt. Colonel, I found myself receiving this treatment. I had to go to the base hospital. I looked young and was wearing a flight suit. I was standing behind a high counter, waiting for the airman to get off the phone; it became apparent that it was a personal call. She was not moving quickly. It struck me: she is giving me a brown bar treatment. She apparently could not see the two silver oak leaves on my shoulders. Finally, she decided to acknowledge my presence. I had been there for nearly five minutes, and she stood up to see what I needed. I had never seen the color drain from a person’s face. She went pale and suddenly became very officious and eager to help me.
I did not chew her out; that was not my style, but I did tell her that it was her job to take good care of the men and women who served our nation. Mather existed because of the brown bars there and the mission to train them for our country. That was all it was there for. Therefore it was important to treat all the students there with respect.
Flight Surgeon (FS) – the term elicited two responses from many jocks: Don’t see him unless you have to do it, and do not volunteer any information on your health.
My first experience with a FS surgeon occurred in graduate school. In 1967, I received notice that I was to report to Griffiss AFB in Rome, New York, for a physical to determine if I could enter flight training. Sadly, my vision changed while I was in grad school, and I couldn’t pass the vision portion of the exam.
I always had issues with the color blindness portion that required one to look at a circle filled with colored dots and read the number. But this was not what did me in, I simply no longer had 20/20 vision and could not even qualify for navigator training. The FS terminated my flight career then. It probably didn’t help that I told him about some past health issues I had experienced in college. No, I didn’t say I had been unconscious, but I did volunteer more than he needed to know. All these things ended my career flying in the bud.
Still, I never gave up on flying, and luckily, by 1971, the Air Force needed more and more men to enter flight training, and I could qualify for navigator training.
At Mather AFB in November 1971, I had yet another flight physical. I admit I was still somewhat naive about my relationship with the FS. I was a captain who had been non-rated for four years. My experience with Air Force medical care was minimal. I had been to the base clinic for a cold or two, but that was about it. While standing in line, a knowledgeable “brown bar” (2nd lt) told me not to volunteer anything to the FS, not to lie about my health, and not to say anything that wasn’t pertinent to the present exam. Thus began my relationship with the FS: a sort of love-hate co-dependency.
Every year, I had to take a flight physical while on flight status. I viewed this event with some trepidation. First, I was built like a fireplug and always had to watch my weight. Even more so — the Air Force kept changing how it determined if one was too heavy. First, they used a sliding scale that increased as one got older, so it was OK to be a bit heavier. Then they instituted a new program that said you had to be the same weight your whole career – what you weighed at 18. Not realistic for us folks with a low metabolism.
So, I had to ensure I was below the maximum weight before my annual physical or be assigned to the dreaded “Fat Boy” program, which was the kiss of death for promotion. Interestingly, this applied mainly to lower-ranking folks, as there were often photos of full colonels and generals who looked very big. But I digress.
For the years, I was on flying status; I had no problems and was always within the standards set for my height. It was when I broke my leg in 1987, my time on flight status ended. The FS grounded me permanently. I could no longer pass the annual PT tests; I retired in 1989.
While it might seem that I had a negative view of the FS, this was not the case. I always got excellent medical treatment from them, and they went out of their way to experience what we flyers did in the air.
One of the best examples was Dr. John Pendergrass flying in the F-4 Phantom II in combat during the Vietnam War. Pendergrass’ time in the backseat, or “Pit,” as we called it, occurred in 1971. Then, he flew 54 combat missions out of Da Nang in the Pit over Vietnam. This was something he did not have to do. He states in his well-written account of that time, Racing Back to Vietnam: A Journey in War and Peace, he could have added his name to a C-130 crew manifest and had a much safer way to fulfill flying time requirements. ( See his obituary below, he passed away in November 2023.)
He did it in The Phantom out of a sense of duty and a personal and professional need to experience some of the most high-adrenaline, demanding types of flight of the Vietnam War. Most GIBs went to Nav School and underwent an eight-month upgrade to the Phantom’s back seat; Pendergrass gained his skills flying on the job. He learned that the back seat of the F-4 was a place of G-suits, Martin Baker ejection seats, INS, radar, RHAW gear, memorized emergency procedures, and many circuit breakers. It was where one needed to be a contortionist while tightly strapped to a rocket, hoping it would never fire. It was a place where the man in the rear cockpit was valued, and every flight in combat was never routine. Pendergrass noted that this influenced him, which became the great adventure of his life, as it was with those of us who were lucky enough to experience it. Pendergrass was typical of the FS who served and tried to find out what made us jocks tick.
He was typical of FS I often saw who were not the enemy determined to ground us but allies to keep us in the air.
I will forever be grateful for their excellent care and help.
Dr. John L. Pendergrass, 78, who died on Wednesday, November 08, 2023.
Interment will be held at a later date in Arlington National Cemetery.
John was born and raised in Clarksdale, MS. He received his Bachelor of Science degree from Delta State College, where he was a charter member of Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity. In 1969, John received the Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of Mississippi and went on to complete an internship at Baylor University Medical Center.
John served as a United States Air Force flight surgeon during the Vietnam War caring for sick and wounded servicemen. He flew 54 combat missions in an F-4 Phantom while stationed at DaNang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam and was a life member of the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Association.
After completing a residency in ophthalmology at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas, TX, John practiced ophthalmology at the Green Eye Institute for 44 years.
He was active in community and medical affairs, serving as vice-president of the Mississippi State Board of Medical Liscensure, president of the South Mississippi Medical Society, president of the Louisiana – Mississippi Ophthalmological Society, president of the Mississippi Eye Ear Nose and Throat Association, and president of the board of directors of the Hattiesburg Family Y. He also funded and endowment that provides free textbooks for military veterans who attend the University of Southern Mississippi.
An active endurance athlete for most of his life, John competed in numerous road races, marathons, and triathlons. He founded the Hattiesburg Track Club in the late 1970s. John was the first person to compete in six Ironman triathlons on six continents in his sixties, a journey he described in his book, “Against the Odds.” This book, along with his award winning memoir, “Racing Back to Vietnam,” was published by Random House.
The following piece appeared in the Finger Lakes Times in Geneva, NY Dec 23, 2023
The holiday season is a time of great expectations, which often are not fulfilled. When one experiences a special Christmas, it is a gift of great value. I have had three such Christmases.
Christmas near Oswego, N.Y., 65 years ago: In 1958, I lived in a very rural area and decided to go out into the woods to cut down a Christmas tree. I was 14 and very confident. As the afternoon drew on, I kept walking to find the right tree, not realizing how long I had been out in the cold. After awhile, it began to get dark, but I couldn’t go back empty-handed. I wandered around but still hadn’t found that “perfect” tree. It got darker and darker, and I was clearly lost and still had no tree. As things got bleaker, I saw my grandfather coming through the woods. He had tracked my route. He helped me find a tree, but more importantly, he got me home safely.
Christmas in Thailand, 50 years ago: For nearly half of 1973, I had flown combat missions over Cambodia during the Vietnam Air War. On Christmas day, I felt disconnected. I was rootless and did not understand why. There is no such thing as a good Christmas in a war zone. To celebrate in my small way, I had a tree, presents, and homemade cookies from my wife. My uncle had sent an audiotape that the family had made earlier in the year at a gathering. I sat in my room — listening to the tape, eating those special cookies, looking at that tree sent lovingly to me by my wife, and for a few moments was almost home.
Christmas in Canandaigua, 20 years ago: Like most years, the holiday season 2003 began with much activity. Our younger daughter was working at a daycare in Rochester at the time. The week before Thanksgiving, a mosquito bit her, an odd thing so late in the year. She began to feel ill over Thanksgiving weekend. By the following Monday, my wife took her to the emergency room, and they determined that the brain and its covering — the Menges — had become inflamed or infected (Meningoencephalitis). She rapidly regressed mentally to an infant the following week. My wife and I were under great stress; all the everyday joy of the season evaporated. Yet, slowly but steadily, she began to improve through the skills of the medical team that helped her.
She regained her mental capacity, and by the week before Christmas, she was moved to a rehab center. On Christmas Eve, she came home. My wife remained with her, and my older daughter and I attended our church’s Christmas Eve service. As we sang the old, well-loved carols, my daughter sat there softly weeping, and I admit to not having a dry eye. The heavy weight of the month’s events lifted from our shoulders.
If there is a lesson from these three events, it is that getting caught up in everything the secular world says is necessary during the holidays is easy, but these things are temporary. It takes a unique, unexpected gift to make you understand what is really important. One needs to recognize and accept that gift for a really special Christmas.
In 1963, I was a sophomore at Hobart. Thanksgiving was around the corner, with a well-appreciated break from the usual round of studying, tests, and college life. On Friday, November 22, 1963, I was crossing the Hobart Quad going to a biology laboratory when someone grabbed my arm and said, “The President’s been shot.” Lee Harvey Oswald had shot Kennedy from a sixth-floor window of the Texas School Book Depository as Kennedy traveled by motorcade through Dealey Plaza in Dallas.
I was in shock but went to the lab, where we learned that the president had died. What Dr. T.T. Odell tried to teach us is forever lost to me. As I sat in the lab with my shocked fellows from Hobart and William Smith, all I knew was that I wanted to be somewhere else. Later that afternoon, the Rev. R. Channing Johnson held a service of mourning for the dead president. And, like any other day, I went to work at SAGA serving the evening meal.
The next few days were a blur: the college leadership responded, my still-shocked parents retrieved me from Hobart, and I remember going to a memorial service for the dead president on Sunday, November 24. Once home, on went the TV to follow the ongoing saga.
The news media was everywhere. As we tuned in, detectives were escorting Oswald through the basement of Dallas Police Headquarters toward an armored car that was to take him from the city jail (located on the fourth floor of police headquarters) to the nearby county jail. At 11:21 a.m. CST, Dallas nightclub operator Jack Ruby approached Oswald from the side of the crowd and shot him once in the abdomen at close range.
Photo from BBC special
This event was televised live. It was another stunning moment. We had a Thanksgiving dinner in 1963, but I do not remember it. Like many Americans, I was in shock for many days. It was the first of the shocks to come to my generation in the 1960s.
I first visited the Kennedy grave in 1966 on a trip back from Florida during spring break. It was crude then, with no stone plaza, and the “eternal flame” was simply a pipe out of the ground with a small blue flame burning above JFK’s resting place. It would not be my last visit to the grave.
1968, I was stationed in Washington, D.C., as an Air Force second lieutenant. Like many Americans in 1968, the most newsworthy events played out daily on my television. Whether it was the Vietnam War, the protests, or the presidential election, my TV linked me to the broader world each night.
On March 31, 1968, as I viewed a speech by President Lyndon B. Johnson, he suddenly said: “With America’s sons in the fields far away, with America’s future under challenge right here at home, with our hopes and the world’s hopes for peace in the balance every day, I do not believe that I should devote an hour or a day of my time to any personal partisan causes or to any duties other than the awesome duties of this office — the presidency of this country.” My reaction was what did he say? Then he added, “Accordingly, I shall not seek, and I will not accept, the nomination of my party for another term as your president.” The thought that LBJ, probably the most political president in memory, would not run again was stunning.
With Johnson’s withdrawal from the 1968 race, Senator Robert F. Kennedy became the leading democratic candidate. Then, on June 6, 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles. Within five years, the nation had reeled from the deaths of President John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and now another assassination filled our TV screens. As the story unfolded on the nightly news, RFK’s body would be flown back to New York for a funeral on June 8. Then, it would be taken to Washington by train for burial in Arlington, near his brother’s grave.
I went down to Union Station to be there when the train arrived. It was dark and late on a Saturday night, and I climbed up on a wall near the station to see the limousines, hearse, and ever-present media move through the darkened city on the way to Arlington. I still remember the long line of dark cars moving away on Constitution Avenue toward Virginia on that warm June night. It was an unfortunate event and markedly different than the reaction to the earlier death of Dr. King in April of that year. Then the city exploded, and now the mood was almost defeated sadness. Sadness that once again a life had been taken, sadness for our country, and sadness for a year that seemed to be out of control.
On Sunday, June 9, 1968, I decided to go to Arlington to visit the Kennedy graves. Despite all the recent events of the previous days, the area around the graves was deserted. I climbed the hill to JFK’s grave and saw the freshly dug grave of Robert Kennedy nearby on the left of the main plaza area. After a few moments, I turned to leave. To my surprise, Jacqueline Kennedy, John Jr., and Caroline were there. I didn’t know what to think: the Kennedy family was coming up the hill to JFK’s grave. When they reached their father’s grave, the children knelt down and prayed.
My photo
At Robert’s grave, Jackie placed a single white rose. She turned and passed very close to me; I stood there transfixed by something so unexpected that had happened. And then, as quickly as they came, they were gone. I will never forget and cherish this special moment of that troubled year.
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