Betty's Blues

Today, while sitting down to some, ahem, chicken at Doug's Fish Fry in Skaneateles, I overheard bits and pieces of a conversation some men were having at a table nearby. I gathered they had been soldiers together in the Vietnam War. When the three stood up to go place their order, a younger man, probably in his forties, approached them.

"I just wanted to say thank you for your service." He stuck out his hand. "I couldn't help but overhear that you guys served together in Vietnam, and I want you to know that I appreciate what you did. I know you didn't get the warmest welcome home back then."

It absolutely touched my heart.

One of the men said that he had been surprised a couple of weeks ago to receive a call from a former military buddy, and they decided to get together. "First time we've seen each other in forty years!" he said with a laugh. The appreciative young man offered to snap a picture of them, and they happily accepted his offer.

As I wrangled Ben into the bathroom to change his diaper, I was struck by the fact that both my son and I had been born in the space of time that these men had been apart.

And that we have no idea what they've been through.

I was struck by their differences: one in a dress shirt (no tie) and khakis, one in a Syracuse windbreaker, one in an oversized hoodie. They'd served at the same time, experienced the same things, and had taken some different paths to arrive at Doug's today. But what stood out to me the most was that not one of these men seemed bitter. Thankful, not bitter. Sort of gracious. Proud. They'd been through hell, returned to a cold shoulder, and still remember their manners.

Neat.