Fog in Heaven
Sunday morning, July 3, in Clearfield, PA B&B.
Cathy: Good morning, Frank. Did you sleep well?
Grandpa: I believe I did. I had some riotous dreams, though. You know the unconscious can’t tell time, so I zipped around from age 17 to 78, in and out of moments that I recall clearly, and maybe even into the future. So strange.
Cathy: Anything that you care to share?
Grandpa: Well, you can tell that any references to my deceased wife are verboten with Leah. She adored her Grandma, and I think part of the vigilant defense of her is about needing to finish grieving Hope’s death.
Cathy: No one wants to complete that grieving, Frank. I never wanted to say goodbye to my grandmother. She was my Rock of Gibraltar and North Star all in one.
Grandpa: And Sam?
Cathy: That still hurts me deeply. The social stigma and shame prevent me from letting him go. Just listening to Leah’s words about Sam deserving a Hero flag shook me. I wanted to agree, but the shame said “No. Impossible. He died at his own hand. Heroes don’t kill themselves.”
Grandpa: So, in your estimation Mark Milford and Stevie Mueller are real heroes?
Cathy: Yes! They gave the ultimate sacrifice. Theirs deaths have meaning and honor.
Grandpa: Cathy, I’m going to tell you something that might change your perspective, but it’s very sensitive stuff. On your honor as a Stone, as a human being with dignity, I’ll only tell you if you can assure me that it stays here. Can you do that?
Cathy: OOOhhhh, this sounds very deep and scary. Frank. Can you assure me that I will be better off knowing it than remaining ignorant?
Grandpa: If you choose ignorance, I can’t assure you of anything except continued ignorance. I believe you will benefit from the truth I have to share. It’s painful, but I believe it’s the reason Leah unloaded on you last night about Sam needing a Hero flag.
Cathy: Okay, Frank. She already knows this?
Grandpa: Yes, as of last night after dinner.
Cathy: All right then, if she can handle it, I can too.
Grandpa: Steve Mueller committed suicide. He was not killed in action.
Cathy: How is that possible, Frank? He and Mark were both killed in Vietnam, just a few days apart.
Grandpa: I know. Mark walked through a trip wire on patrol. Stevie was in the process of a dishonorable discharge when he heard of Mark’s death. That’s when he killed himself.
Cathy: Wait! I don’t understand what you’re telling me. Why would Stevie be discharged?
Grandpa: He was outed as a homosexual.
Cathy: What? But, how could they do that?
Grandpa: They could and they did, Cathy. Remember it was 1969, and homosexuality was still considered a mental illness if not a crime. It was reason enough to discharge a soldier then, probably still is with President DeSantis running rough shod over our Constitution.
Cathy: That is so, so… I don’t even have the words!! But he shot himself? Was that like a political statement or something?
Grandpa: No, it was very personal. He and Mark Milford… were lovers.
Cathy: My God!!! Two boys from Clearfield were gay lovers in Vietnam? Frank, I’m spinning.
Grandpa: I know. I learned slowly over years, so the shock has worn off. I used to believe that if the Army said something, then it must be true. I don’t believe that any longer.
Cathy: Let me try to get my head around this again… Mark and Stevie were drafted in 1968. And they both went to basic training together?
Grandpa: Yep.
Cathy: And then were shipped to Vietnam together?
Grandpa: Yes, but to different assignments. Mark was out in the field. Stevie was in Saigon behind a desk. He was always the smart one.
Cathy: Then Mark was killed by a booby trap while Stevie was being dishonorably discharged for being gay?
Grandpa: Sadly true again.
Cathy: And when Stevie heard about Mark’s death, he killed himself with his own sidearm?
Grandpa: Uh huh.
Cathy: But the Army covered it up by claiming Stevie was killed in action?
Grandpa: Yeah, they were covering up their own asses mostly.
Cathy: Sickening. Stunning. I’m reminded of that saying that the first casualty in war is the truth.
Grandpa: Yeah, absolutely every time, every war.
Cathy: This might sound perverse, but this horrible news somehow seems to justify my brother’s death also. All three of those boys were sacrificed for something that does not matter anymore. Only Sam had to spend two more years in that hellhole getting addicted to narcotics.
Grandpa: That’s what chaps my ass, Cathy. Those boys had so much life to live parallel to mine, you know? Families to raise, careers to develop, talents to share. Instead, they were turned into fertilizer.
Cathy: It’s all so ghoulish.
Grandpa: I’m the only one left to tell their stories, but nobody wants to hear this old crap. I’m the ghoul tale teller. I loved those guys, and still do. Telling their truth eases some of my guilt for not being there with them.
Cathy: Frank, thank you for pushing me out of my ignorance. I feel some relief knowing what I know now. And, listen: I’m so glad you did not go to that graveyard called Vietnam.
Leah enters dining room.
Grandpa: Good morning, Honey. How are you feeling this morning?
Leah: Sort of lost in time, Grandpa. I had troubled sleep last night. I kept seeing young men falling down dead on the streets around me. And then their corpses were ironed on to linen burial cloths. I know it’s bizarre, but then there were these Boy Scout honor guards playing Taps and raising the ironed-on men up flag poles like dried herring. Everyone saluted and a feeble gun salute was fired, but the sound was tinny and weak. I just stood there looking at these human figure flags hanging there with horrible, twisted faces. It was so frightening.
Cathy: Oh Leah, it’s okay, Honey. [Hugs her fully] Dreams are just trying to iron out the wrinkles of our waking life. Sometimes the laundry gets piled up and your dreams have to work faster than an Irish washer woman to catch up.
Grandpa: Cathy, that is profound… hmmm, our dreams iron out the wrinkles of daily life. Genius!
Cathy: Oh Frank! Really, it’s just a what? A metaphor about ironing. Not exactly poetry.
Grandpa: Poetry is creating with words, Cathy. And you just created an enduring image for me. Thank you.
Leah: Yes, Cathy. That really helps me to unwind the visions. I know my dream was about those damn flags and the waste of young men’s lives. So now they are on display like meat and fish at the Butcher Shoppe.
Grandpa: Whoa! Another poet has emerged. Wonderful simile, Leah. You see? Pain can cause us to grow, by Golly. If we honor the pain with our undivided attention. For as long as mankind has been warring, we have swept the pain under a carpet of grass– Flanders Field, Arlington, Gettysburg, Antietam– and then we have the gall to call these sacred ground. They are no such things. They are glorified waste pits for the rubbish of war. The horror of war lies moldering in the graves, while ignorant weapons dealers and politicians plot their next crusade. Where ignorant armies clash in the night…
Leah: Grandpa? Please tell us about those good old days when you and your friends were innocently mischievous. At least your friends were.
Grandpa: Sure, Honey Bunch. Right after breakfast.
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