Street Solace

For forty years the sign stood silent. Some knew its story but didn't share it widely. Those truly connected became unlinked by time and sorrow. Life intervened as decades multiplied and the sign became weathered, was replaced, and then continued its quiet mandate. Houses appeared, followed by families. A yellow sign reads, 'Careful Children Playing.' A neighborhood, a sylvan setting with tall trees, colorful flowers, and the occasional geese wandering into the road. A tranquil place whose name evokes memories of home.





But this sign is not ordinary for it honors a hero. A young man who lived barely a week after his twentieth birthday and died in a violent world which he never created but wasn't destined to survive. Yet the legacy of his bittersweetly short existence transcended the consummate tragedy of his loss.

Picture a young man bursting with joy, growing up in a nearly perfect small New York town in the 50's and early 60's. He's the center of all activities, equally adept at football, basketball, and baseball. His physical skills are more than matched by a personality that engages all whom he encounters and the effect he has on classmates, family and teachers remains potent to this day. Everyone, truly everyone, loved him. Stories of his kindnesses, his tremendous heart, his love for his little sisters are legion.



Nearly 43 years have passed since his loss. Years of grieving, tinged with anger and disbelief. How could someone so vital, so loved and loving be gone? There are no answers. Family and friends never forget and his presence remains etched within their hearts. When classmates are together, there's always a story in which he has a leading role. Laughter erupts with the telling and then the reality returns. He's not here to share the memories. He never reached his twenty-first birthday or any of the other milestones enjoyed by so many of his contemporaries. It is a sadness that won't stop.

Perhaps the emotion has been assuaged somewhat by a momentous recent gathering at his sign. The one named in his honor. The one with the star signifying that he died in combat. A simple green sign, marking the way to a peaceful neighborhood where he might have lived someday. He's there as a sentry, watching over the residents.

Nearly 120 people stood together closely and immersed themselves in a celebration of a colleague, a comrade, a brother whose spirit flitted among the crowd. He was felt through the tears of men and women whose hair is grey or gone, whose faces he might not recognize with slight lines or deep furrows, whose bodies are mostly no longer supple and in some cases are quite broken. He'd look within their souls and see their own sorrow attached to parents who've departed, spouses or children who've been relinquised unwillingly. There'd be disappointments and regrets but more than a measure of satisfaction at a life well lived with people who are tremendously loved. Beyond the individual stories, he'd sense an overwhelming connection which can only be described as love.



He'd immediately recognize his very best friend, Bill. He'd notice his younger sisters, JoAnn and Debbie and marvel at their grown-up selves. Surely he'd reach out and touch their tears and enfold them in one of his special hugs. He'd chuckle as Bill stands behind the podium and recounts some of their exploits, realizing perhaps that he hasn't shared everything with the group.



He'd remember another classmate, Henry, and know that he'd applied his faultless organizational skills and determination to this re-dedication ceremony. He would have expected nothing less and maybe, just maybe, he, the absent honoree, helped a bit along the way. After all there was that cancelled trip to Europe which resulted in a visit to his street and the incubation of an idea whose fruition far exceeded the expectations of anyone. Except, perhaps, he knew it all along.



There's a bronze plaque to unveil. The sisters will reverently unwrap the green and white scarves, representing his high school colors. He'll remember and be pleased. The crying is increasing, it can't be staunched. Everyone understands and those who are dry-eyed have internal tears.



With his usual eloquence, Bill has honored the Vietnam-era veterans. They stand as a group, associated forever by their military experience. Some have arrived in full regalia but with no memory of the cherished classmate. They just know that he's a brother and are compelled to participate in this memorial.



I, too, am one of those unfortunate few whose life has only been touched by his ancedotes, not by knowing him. There's always another story to be told, a moment to share. I've had my own losses. A classmate who perished in that steamy country, just twenty-two. The wrenching pain of a phone call, deep into the night, with the dreadful words, 'Brother's gone.' My only sibling, my Brother, at thirty. I know the searing throb that lingers decade after decade and the uncontrollable desire to share events like the birth of our daughter who carries his name. The stories help balance my sanity and there's a profound belief that Brother's spirit remains ever-present. So it is with Teedie. There's solace now, thanks to a street.