Published: July 06, 2008 12:00 am            

Close encounter of the American kind

We were seemingly as different as New York and New Mexico. At least, that’s what I reckoned, standing in line behind the stocky gentleman at a fast food restaurant.

I sported a polo shirt and khaki slacks. He was decked out in a black leather Harley Davidson vest and T-shirt. My hair, or what remains of it, was neatly parted and combed from right to left. His head was completely shaven in blinding Kojak fashion.

I had donned tasseled loafers; he wore construction boots. I had a wrist watch on my arm; he displayed tattoos on his.

Only one of us flashed an earring. Guess who?

As I heard him order a burger and fries, I calculated that the only thing we probably had in common was high cholesterol. Then I spied it – a small patch on the back of his motorcycle garb. It read, “U.S. Army Combat Veteran.”

Of course, we didn’t have that in common, either. The closest I ever came to military service was a bumbling freshman year of ROTC at Middle Tennessee State. Never even learned to read a compass. As far as active duty, a history of impaired vision rendered me medically ineligible from the git-go. But when I observed that patch, I could not help but engage the man as we both awaited our greasy take-out.

“I see that you served in the military,” I opened.

“Yeah, Nam,” he answered.

“Well, I just wanted to thank you for your service to our country,” I said, extending my hand.

“Oh, really,” he countered, returning the handshake. “You know, some people don’t feel that way.”

“Well, I do,” I stressed. “My Dad was a combat veteran in World War II. There aren’t many of those guys still around, you know.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” he said.

“Also, my grandfather was a combat vet in World War I,” I continued. “I’ve always been proud of them for their service. So, I’ve got a lot of respect for anybody who serves in the military, and I just wanted to thank you.”

“Well, you made my day, friend,” he said, picking up his food order. “See ya around, buddy.”

Soon my order was ready, too, and I proceeded to the parking lot, just in time to see the well-tanned, goateed fellow don his sunglasses and crank his chrome-laden bike.

“Varoom!” the engine roared. Just about that time, the rider caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a little nod, as close to a salute as I’ll ever experience.

It was a brief encounter, yet a valuable lesson that God wove into my day. That is, there are all kinds of people in this melting pot of a planet. In the case of my Right-of-Reagan self and the man I encountered in the restaurant, there’s every possibility that we viewed the world quite differently. For instance, I can hardly manage a decent comb-over these days, desperately clinging to the few healthy strands I have left. Whereas, my new biker acquaintance fancied the slick, cue ball look. He obviously considered tattoos and body piercing art forms. To me, a tattoo seems painful and permanent, kind of like a one-way ticket to Fargo.

Bottom line, the reality was that man was not only different from me; in a manner of speaking, he was better than me. For he had done something special with his life - going somewhere he probably never wanted to go, enduring things no one should ever have to endure, and putting his very life on the line for sake of ideals some will never fully understand or appreciate - ideals like honor and duty. In short, he had put others above self. What a rare and noble thing.

If it were not for that veteran and millions more like him – past, present and future – my life wouldn’t be nearly so blessed. So, on this 4th of July weekend, I hope I’ll take a moment to reflect upon such sacrifices, from George Washington to George Patton to George Casey.

Let me start by saying, Grandpa, if you’re looking down from Heaven today, thanks for taking that piece of shrapnel for me back in WWI. And, Dad, thanks for dodging all those Zeroes strafing that tin can you helped man in the Pacific. And to my brother-in-law, Tony, thanks for your service in Vietnam, a hitch that exposed you to heavy enemy fire and the Agent Orange that may well have caused your lingering and untimely death.

Yes, thanks to all such men and women who have served and are serving at home and abroad so that the likes of me can enjoy the freedoms I so casually take for granted.

God bless you all, and God bless America.

        

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