this was my weekend. in essence, i picked up two sons, got on the midnight train out of chicago, went east to erie pennsylvania for a family wedding celebration, and came back on the same night as we'd got there. got back in galesburg early this afternoon, somewhat bleary eyed but happy i went.
the train from galesburg to chicago was eleven hours late, so we chose to drive my little honda to chicago and one son found a place to park: relatively cheap. it was down by union station, in the loop, yet very accessible. we were at the union station maybe four hours, a long wait but with beautiful architecture and very high ceilings. the place was full of Amish: maybe they were going back to pennsylvania? they had been in iowa, or further parts west?
the train chugged along at pretty decent speed; it went through toledo, where i spent years 1955-1965, at the of 1-10, and clerveland, where i was actually born in 1954. i also lived in pittsburgh and buffalo, which meant that erie, our destination, was in the center of the four towns. an intersting combination of total familiarity in essence and lack of familiarity in detail; in other words i didn't know the city at all, but in a deep way i knew it very very well. i told my sons about somne of my experiences growing up. they were impressed by the fact that when we got to pennsylvania it was hilly and wooded. it felt different from the midwest, and was.
someone had stolen the presidential deck of cards in union station. i looked everywhere for them to no avail. all that information, about their years, etc., gone. no problem, there was plenty to do and look at on the train. it rolled through indiana, toledo, and cleveland on its way to erie. i woke up suddenly in toledo at about three. then again in cleveland at about four thirty in the morning. all i saw were sleepy industrial cities splayed along the tracks. somewhat sleepless upon arrival in erie, we went down to a local diner for breakfast. i had my sister and my two boys with me. it was the old part of town, very pennsylvania, lots of character; i told my boys i was happy to show them where i'd grown up, though i hadn't grown up in erie itself. a man turned his swivel chair toward us at the door; he was wearing a hat that said VIETNAM war veteran, quite loudly, as if he was challenging me to tell my story. i knew right then he must have been one of my older classmates, who had gone off to the war and come back damaged or didn't come back at all. his hat said to me, tell your story. but that wasn't the time to tell my story. we were hungry. we sat down and they served us breakfast. i ordered a philly steak omelet.
i laughed to myself, not knowing what they'd think of that. i know they were all watching us, they could tell that i knew the place, i felt. they wouldn't pull the story out of me but if i told it they'd listen. My sister was full of vitriol about the family we grew up in; i didn't argue with her. she needed to tell her story; i need to tell mine.
i was in pittsurgh when i became aware of the war. i was in buffalo when i was drafted, in 1972, my senior year. my guess is that this guy was in that class or the one above. some guy in the class above me lied about his age, joined, and was killed. i had a low draft number, 42, and i found out in january of my senior year. this ensured i would go. canada was only 20 miles away but i didn't want to go to canada. one could also just go to jail but i didn't want to do that either. i was a pacifist and against the war but knew nothing of quakers. i decided i'd just go. i'd make a lousy soldier but they'd be stuck with me. and if i died i died. i'd been reading up on the war and why we were fighting it. i still didn't have a good reason but if they did i would just have to die for theirs. i was worried about it.
but then, right around senior skip day, they canceled the draft. they didn't need us anymore. the camps were full and they were pulling out of vietnam, didn't even need the boys that were already in the camps. one guy in my class tried to enlist, and they turned him away.
on senior skip day i was elated, free, alive. some people told me not to go skip school on that day but i took a stand and skipped school. it was probably the only time i did. it was almost like i was free, an adult, celebrating being alive, and it was pretty close to my eighteenth birthday. i can't remember what i told my mom. there wasn't much she could do about it. besides, i went back to school the following day. in general, i was a good boy and i passed.
back in the restaurant i paid the bill and gave a substantial tip. not the time tell that story. i'm not even sure the guy wanted to hear it, though he said hello and definitely noticed i was there. in the ensuing years i became a quaker, i decided if something tells you not to kill, don't kill. thou shalt not kill. if you kill then you have to live with the memory although that can be done, and i don't blame him for what he did. we were all there, we were all faced with a choice. it could have been me that was there in vietnam doing whatever he did; i certainly did nothing to stop it. all those guys are still back there, in pennsylvania and new york, living with their choices. and here i was, stopping in to say hello.
the train from galesburg to chicago was eleven hours late, so we chose to drive my little honda to chicago and one son found a place to park: relatively cheap. it was down by union station, in the loop, yet very accessible. we were at the union station maybe four hours, a long wait but with beautiful architecture and very high ceilings. the place was full of Amish: maybe they were going back to pennsylvania? they had been in iowa, or further parts west?
the train chugged along at pretty decent speed; it went through toledo, where i spent years 1955-1965, at the of 1-10, and clerveland, where i was actually born in 1954. i also lived in pittsburgh and buffalo, which meant that erie, our destination, was in the center of the four towns. an intersting combination of total familiarity in essence and lack of familiarity in detail; in other words i didn't know the city at all, but in a deep way i knew it very very well. i told my sons about somne of my experiences growing up. they were impressed by the fact that when we got to pennsylvania it was hilly and wooded. it felt different from the midwest, and was.
someone had stolen the presidential deck of cards in union station. i looked everywhere for them to no avail. all that information, about their years, etc., gone. no problem, there was plenty to do and look at on the train. it rolled through indiana, toledo, and cleveland on its way to erie. i woke up suddenly in toledo at about three. then again in cleveland at about four thirty in the morning. all i saw were sleepy industrial cities splayed along the tracks. somewhat sleepless upon arrival in erie, we went down to a local diner for breakfast. i had my sister and my two boys with me. it was the old part of town, very pennsylvania, lots of character; i told my boys i was happy to show them where i'd grown up, though i hadn't grown up in erie itself. a man turned his swivel chair toward us at the door; he was wearing a hat that said VIETNAM war veteran, quite loudly, as if he was challenging me to tell my story. i knew right then he must have been one of my older classmates, who had gone off to the war and come back damaged or didn't come back at all. his hat said to me, tell your story. but that wasn't the time to tell my story. we were hungry. we sat down and they served us breakfast. i ordered a philly steak omelet.
i laughed to myself, not knowing what they'd think of that. i know they were all watching us, they could tell that i knew the place, i felt. they wouldn't pull the story out of me but if i told it they'd listen. My sister was full of vitriol about the family we grew up in; i didn't argue with her. she needed to tell her story; i need to tell mine.
i was in pittsurgh when i became aware of the war. i was in buffalo when i was drafted, in 1972, my senior year. my guess is that this guy was in that class or the one above. some guy in the class above me lied about his age, joined, and was killed. i had a low draft number, 42, and i found out in january of my senior year. this ensured i would go. canada was only 20 miles away but i didn't want to go to canada. one could also just go to jail but i didn't want to do that either. i was a pacifist and against the war but knew nothing of quakers. i decided i'd just go. i'd make a lousy soldier but they'd be stuck with me. and if i died i died. i'd been reading up on the war and why we were fighting it. i still didn't have a good reason but if they did i would just have to die for theirs. i was worried about it.
but then, right around senior skip day, they canceled the draft. they didn't need us anymore. the camps were full and they were pulling out of vietnam, didn't even need the boys that were already in the camps. one guy in my class tried to enlist, and they turned him away.
on senior skip day i was elated, free, alive. some people told me not to go skip school on that day but i took a stand and skipped school. it was probably the only time i did. it was almost like i was free, an adult, celebrating being alive, and it was pretty close to my eighteenth birthday. i can't remember what i told my mom. there wasn't much she could do about it. besides, i went back to school the following day. in general, i was a good boy and i passed.
back in the restaurant i paid the bill and gave a substantial tip. not the time tell that story. i'm not even sure the guy wanted to hear it, though he said hello and definitely noticed i was there. in the ensuing years i became a quaker, i decided if something tells you not to kill, don't kill. thou shalt not kill. if you kill then you have to live with the memory although that can be done, and i don't blame him for what he did. we were all there, we were all faced with a choice. it could have been me that was there in vietnam doing whatever he did; i certainly did nothing to stop it. all those guys are still back there, in pennsylvania and new york, living with their choices. and here i was, stopping in to say hello.
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