Simply sharing because things are on my mind, and I feel the need to write. Maybe it is editorializing, but here it is for whatever it is worth to anyone.
A few years ago, Roberta and I went Christmas shopping. At one of our stops she needed to enter a store alone, and I needed to enter another business alone. As I approached the door, a young man I had never seen before, who was in his mid 20s, I think, crossed my path. The store had two sets of doors with a small hallway in between. As I was entering through the outer doorway, the young man was holding the door open for a woman who was exiting. As she approached me, I held the door by which I was standing open for her. “Thank yous” and “You are welcomes” were exchanged by the three of us.
Then I stepped toward the inner doors, and the young man was still standing there holding the door open for me. I motioned for him to enter before me, but he declined and stated I should go first. I thanked him, he said I was welcome and I entered the store. I hadn’t taken more than two steps when I heard a voice say, “Sir.” I didn’t know why, but I thought the word was in reference to me, so I stopped and turned around. It was the same young man standing there next to me.
He was a clean-cut looking guy. His belt wasn’t down by his crotch, his pant cuffs didn’t drag on the floor and overall he was very neat in appearance. He had pride in who he was.
He asked, “Is that a Vietnam service bar on your collar?” All I said was, “Yes.”
If you were an adult at the time of the Vietnam War, especially in the military, I think you tended to be a little wary of a question such as the young man presented. Sometimes what followed was not pleasant. For about a year I had been wearing the bar on my collar just below an American flag pin. Prior to that, I didn’t wear things like that. Something told me enough time had passed. Fifty years prior I had served our country in the waters of the country that bar represented. The pin is about three-fourths of an inch long and about three-eighths of an inch wide. A person has to concentrate a little, unless they are close up, and know at what they are looking to recognize the bar.
The young man reached his right hand towards me and said, “Welcome Home. Thank you for serving.” All I could reply was, “Thank you.” Then he walked away and I got on with my shopping. I had to control a little emotion as I, too, walked away.
“Welcome Home” has come to symbolize for many Vietnam veterans two words they longed to hear, and they are two words many, I’m sure, have never heard expressed to them. Vietnam was political. All wars are political. If blame for war is to be given, it should be given to those who do the sending, not those who are sent. “It is the wolfhound who keeps the wolf from the door.”
Many men and women have come home after serving our country and did not, or have not, received a simple “Welcome Home.” Roberta, my wife, was the first to say those words to me. One other has since, after I first said those words to him. I’m not asking for a “Welcome Home” from anyone. Things are fine with me. How about this? How about giving a simple “Welcome Home” and a handshake to those you know who have served our country in the military at any time, in any place, in any capacity to help preserve what we hold dear as a people, as a nation.
Below is a poem I wrote years ago in reference to this subject for any veteran out there who is hurting in any way:

WELCOME HOME

“Welcome Home,” just that,
“Welcome Home.”
They ache to hear it said.
Just that, nothing more.
Just that,
A hunger needing to be fed.
From friends who passed.
From friends
Who saw, but didn’t see,
That they,
That they,
Could have been we.
Time passes. It stays.
Time passes.
The feeling never leaves.
Still there, after all.
Still there.
Soul still grieves
“Welcome Home,” please,
“Welcome Home.”
Clean away the mental dirt,
Welcome Home,” please,
Help them end the mental hurt.

Again, I’m not asking anything for me. Iraq, Afghanistan and remote places of which we hardly ever hear are emotional grounds for anyone who serves. All of them deserve a “Welcome Home” when they return. If a nation sends its people off to war, it must totally support them both when and where they are deployed and when they return.
Well, that is off my mind for awhile, at least.
Peace, health and happiness, everyone.

James M. Garrett has lived in Benicia his entire life. He retired after a career of teaching at Benicia High School. He is the author of “one Great season 9-0!,” “Benicia and Letters of Love,” “The Mansion Stories,” and the compiler of “The Golden Era,” a history of Benicia High School football from the 1948 through 1960 seasons. Contact him at Jgstoriesnpoetry@aol.com.

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