A Visit to the Traveling Vietnam Memorial

Today, Amy and I met my pop, ma, and sister at the traveling Vietnam Memorial at Olinger’s Cemetary on Hampden. We met at 2 pm, as the sun was blazing, before the afternoon cloud cover rolled in. I couldn’t help but think about how hot it must be in the Middle East right now.


As Amy and I walked up to meet my folks, I saw Pops talking to a lean, weathered biker type. The man was wiry and little, with hair the color of sunburned straw. He sported biker colors and various military pins on his black leather vest. As we approached, he wrapped up his conversation with Pops.

“And if yer ever down that way, just stop in there and ask for me. They know who I am. I’ll probably be down there tonight—lord knows I’ll need a couple after today.” As I walked up he shook hands with Pops and walked past me, giving me a curt nod. I noticed my ma’s eyes were red. They’d been here a while already, waiting on us. I’m sure she’d been crying already.

“Everyone’s been stopping your father and thanking him for his service,” she said, her voice cracking and eyes welling up again. The last few years have been as tough on her as anyone. The war may have ended 30 years ago, but it still creeps in at the edges every once in a while for my Pops… like it does for every G.I. who came back.

And the families of the 58,000 men who didn’t…

We walked up the path and passed this sign. One long, slow look around confirmed the verbiage. People spoke in hushed voices—walking along the black marble shelves of a library of sorrow. The only sound that pierced was the occasional honk from a horn in traffic on Hampden and the voice of the woman reading the names of the dead, one at a time, over the loudspeaker.

I was at once struck by the collection of small memorials people had brought to place at the wall. Every few feet was a Tootsie Roll, for instance. One particular memorial caught my eye, a box of pound cake and a can of cling peaches.