just enough light

Raymond was the crossing guard at one of the street corners between our house and the elementary school my son attended. He was retired, about 20 years older than I. Raymond had learned the first name of every child that he helped across the street, and he learned the first name of most of the parents. Since I frequently walked Austin to his corner, Raymond and I were on a first-name basis.

One day, I don’t remember the circumstances, I was home early from the office, so I decided to go meet Austin at Raymond’s intersection. I got there a few minutes early and there was Raymond, sitting on the curb waiting. We greeted each other and I sat down next to him. We chatted casually. I learned that had been a machinist most of his adult life and was a veteran of the Korean War. In the midst of our conversation, he asked, “Were you ever in the war?”

“No I wasn’t.” Then I gave him a little background, the same story millions of guys my age who did not serve in Viet Nam could tell. I talked of sitting in the dorm lobby, terrified as I watching the draft lottery on TV. My number was 141. I got through college on my student deferment but was reclassified I-A upon graduation, went for my physical, and spent the next months sweating it out until the draft was discontinued shortly before my number was called. “So I didn’t go.”

Then I said, “Sometimes I feel guilty about not going when so many of my contemporaries did.”

Raymond then surprised me. “Oh, John, don’t ever feel guilty about not being in a war. War is a terrible thing.” He then told me several stories he said he wished he could forget but never will. He got tears in his eyes as he calmly recalled awful events that had shaped him and haunted him. For those few minutes the rest of the world disappeared.

By then the kids were starting to show up. He stood, we shook hands and thanked each other for the time and the stories.

Moments like those with Raymond remind me that each of us is a complex creature with a colorful background. It also reminds me how easy it is for me to see people and important political, social, and religious issues as simple and one-dimensional. Raymond and I were from different generations, had different backgrounds and educations, and likely would have disagreed on many issues. But a few minutes of confessional stories became connective tissue between us. Those differences no longer mattered.