by Brenda Ethridge

Created on: January 06, 2010

Reflections: Veteran's Day

A few days ago, I went to the Star Complex to the Veterans' Memorial there. I wonder, myself, why I did not go sooner, knowing that four bricks had been placed there months ago, from me giving the information to the proper people; bricks that had special meaning for me.

One was for my son Scottie, another for my son Jamie, a third for an uncle, and a fourth for someone I had never met.

As I looked down at the bricks scanning the rows, my eyes fell first on the name Scottie Ethridge. A cold chill went through me. How cold that hard brick looked; I could not keep the thought from entering my mind that it could have just as easily been a headstone that I was going to visit. Perhaps this is why I had not gone earlier.

Jamie's brick was close to Scottie's. How appropriate I thought, two boys who had grown up side by side, who had joined the Army side by side(without their mother's permission!), requested the same base side by side, and who stand side by side in times of trouble today.

The uncle is in his 80s now, a Naval officer who fought in three wars; World War II, Korea, and Vietnam; the brother of my deceased father-quite a record.

The fourth I never had the chance to meet. He was a young man who never saw his 23rd birthday. Spc. Shawn M. Davies was once at Fort Hood, Texas; but had a home in Hopewell, Pennsylvania. He died on July 8, 2004, in Baghdad. I must admit that as I stared at that brick, I wondered if there might be a mother in Hopewell, PA, that had lost all hope, that was at the same moment staring at a headstone, instead of a brick.... He is "my brick," too. He represents for me that he is also my son, America's son. He should not escape my mind and memory. He is real, just as those I have met and loved.

There is, as has been said, something healing about running your fingers across a name etched in a brick or wall. I don't know just why one feels close to the person or why it gives a sense of healing. As I ran my fingers over the names of my sons in the bricks, I whispered, "You are home now." And as for Shawn, I whispered, "You are home now, as well."

My son, Scottie, called me not long ago, and asked me if I had ever read the book Jarhead. There is a movie as well, he said, but of course the movie paled in comparison. He told me there were some lines in the book that were so true. It was if someone has given words to a feeling he could not shake. He told me the lines, and said, "Mom, this is how it really is!" as if to be able for the first time to find letters put together in our system of language that could actually express the inexpressible language of the experience of war. The words appear below:

"A MAN FIRES A RIFLE FOR MANY YEARS,

AND HE GOES TO WAR.

AND AFTERWARDS HE TURNS THE RIFLE IN AT THE ARMORY,

AND HE BELIEVES HE'S FINISHED WITH THE RIFLE.

BUT NO MATTER WHAT ELSE HE MIGHT DO WITH HIS HANDS:

LOVE A WOMAN,

BUILD A HOUSE,

CHANGE HIS SON'S DIAPER-

HIS HANDS REMEMBER THE RIFLE."

-JARHEAD by SWOFFORD

The words reminded me of what he had lost, what thousands had lost, a sort of innocence that could never be regained.

As I turned to leave the complex memorial, the feeling of pride, intermingled with sadness, was present within me-for my uncle, and for my sons-Scottie, Jamie-and yes, Shawn from Hopewell, PA.

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