Dawn. Late October. Hallowed ground. I was hunched down, and leaning over
my right knee, gently trying to persuade it to wake up and pay attention. There
was an eerie quiet in my head, a self-imposed calm not unlike the calm a warrior
tries to gain before he heads into battle. But I was no warrior, just a runner,
and not a very fast one at that—one of eighteen thousand who were huddled
around the base of the Marine Corps monument in Washington, DC, waiting for someone
to fire a cannon and start a race. In spite of what lay ahead of me that day,
I realized that in reality, I had it pretty easy. I wasn’t there to carry
out someone else’s orders. No one (other than, perhaps, myself) was trying
to kill me. I wasn’t going to have to run for my life. The truth was that
if things got bad enough, I could pull out of the crowd, hail a cab, go back
to the hotel, pick up Darcy, and then head to Starbucks for a cappuccino and
sympathy. Although it was a marathon, The Marine Corps Marathon, it was nothing
compared to what the men that surrounded me had to face.
The closest one was just a few feet from where I was stretching out. Tens
of thousands of them lay in perfect rows, their creamy white headstones standing
at parade rest across the quiet acres of Arlington National Cemetery. For them
there had been no cabs to call, no coffee or sympathy from a tender, understanding
woman if they decided to give up and go home. They had stood their posts, held
their ground, and given every last thing they had. I couldn’t help but
feel a bit guilty in the midst of it all—as though all of the pomp and
pageantry of a civilian foot race somehow desecrated the memory of their sacrifice.
Darcy was there to see me off. She was standing at the base of the Iwo Jima
statue, eclipsed by the powerful sculpture of the five bronzed Marines planting
the flag in the grey ash of Mt. Suribachi. That battle alone had cost over 5,000
men of the Third, Fourth, and Fifth United States Marine divisions their lives.
It was easy, in that pre-race dawn, to be so preoccupied with what lay ahead
that you fail to appreciate the full impact of the memorial’s message.
We were civilians with dot com careers and fat 401Ks to fall back on huddling
in the shadow of humble heroes. The worst we had to look forward to were a few
days of hobbling around on stiff legs. The whole scene was dripping in irony.
In an attempt to put the race in the proper context, I had decided to take
someone along with me to keep me company. Actually, it wasn’t somebody,
but the memory of somebody. His name was Jon Eric Reid. He was a Chief Warrant
Officer in the US Army. I’d picked out his name from the many MIAs from
Vietnam that were still unaccounted for. I’d been wearing his MIA bracelet
for some time and thought that it might be fitting to wear it as I plodded my
way through the streets of Washington, past the shadows of government buildings,
and around the Pentagon that sent him the orders that ultimately brought him
down.
It was February 20, 1971. Reid was piloting a UH1C (Huey gunship) helicopter
for the 48th Assault Helicopter Company. Reid and his crew of three were providing
gun cover for a resupply mission about 20 miles southeast of Sapone, Laos. They
were hit by enemy ground fire and crashed. The helicopter landed upright on its
skids, the tail boom broken off, and the right aft burning. Two men were seen
running from the aircraft to some nearby trees. A ground rescue attempt was begun
but a tactical situation changed and caused it to be called off. Reid and his
companions were never heard from again. Rumors abounded that they were in POW
camps but they didn’t show up in the 1973 release.
I thought most about Reid in the lonely late miles of the race down in East
Potomac Park. Along this abandoned stretch, there were no stately halls of government,
no marble memorials, no cheering crowds; just the quiet, the pain in my legs,
and my thoughts. It was when I was feeling the worst, when I wanted to pull off
to the side and let the race pass me by, I thought of Reid. Did he make it? If
he didn’t, did he die right away? Or did he survive the crash only to succumb
to a ground fight with the enemy? What has it been like for his parents, his
siblings, his friends? There were no answers, but there was perspective. We’ve
all had it so good because some people were willing to have it so bad. We fit
our marathons into our schedule, but the Reids that went before us ran theirs
because of duty, honor, and loyalty to something bigger.
It was three months later. I still hadn’t learned my lesson enough from
the Marine Corps Marathon to know when to quit. I had just received a hug and
kiss goodbye from Darcy in my driveway and climbed into my car to head to the
airport, to head to San Diego, to run in yet another marathon, and to come in
near the end of the pack again. Darcy had picked up the Saturday paper from the
driveway and was scanning the headlines as I buckled my seatbelt. Her eyes were
piercing into a picture dead center on the front page. They got bigger as she
read. And then she quickly tapped on the window for my attention. The photo was
taken somewhere in Arlington National Cemetery the day before. The honor guard
was pulling the flag taut over a silver casket. Standing nearby were the family
and friends of CWO Jon Eric Reid. It seems that about the time I was running
through the streets of DC wondering his fate, a team from the Army had excavated
the site and found his remains. Finally, so many of the questions were answered.
Finally, a family could write the ending to an unfinished story.
I slipped the bracelet off my wrist and handed it to Darcy to put in her jewelry
box. The next day, as I made my way those last few hundred feet to the finish
line of the San Diego Marathon, I deliberately made my brain play taps inside
my head in honor of my running companion, Jon Eric Reid, and as I passed the
stars and stripes at the finish line I couldn’t help lifting my right hand
to my head in salute.
On the Home Front with Darcy Kimmel
Every weekday afternoon about 2:15, the volume starts to turn up at our house.
At that time, Cody saunters through the front door with a few of his buddies,
laughing and kidding as they recount the events of their school day. Spoons and
bowls clatter together as they are filled with a he-man portion of cereal or
ice cream. The stereo is cranked up and the phone begins its incessant ringing.
Shiloh skips through the threshold a few minutes later, adding her sweet laughter
and civilizing feminine comments to the male cacophony. And just about the time
the high schoolers and the junior higher decide to settle down and tackle their
homework, Colt bursts through the door and livens things up again.
Add to the chatter, laughter, humming and tapping, a well-used piano, a couple
of often strummed guitars and a drum set that will set your teeth on edge, and
you have a typical after school scene at our home. You might assume that someone
like me, who is not a fan of noise, would cringe at this daily invasion of peace
and quiet. I have, however, learned a few valuable lessons during my 20 years
(Yes, Karis just turned twenty. I’m too young to have an adult child!)
of parenting.
I’ve learned that someone else’s noise is a mother’s symphony.
The laughter, the learning, the interaction and productivity are music to my
ears. I’m determined to sit back and enjoy the four part harmony going
on in our home right now, realizing that each noise maker will slip off into
their own solo act way too soon. I just hope I don’t lose my hearing before
that happens.
Here’s to Holy Harmony and Peace without the Quiet,
