Enthusiasm for "Here on the Edge" by Steve McQuiddy

"... there’s something about talking with the kids, something that resonates beyond sharing a great story. Something vital, that lightens the weight of time. I guess you could call it optimism...."
 /http://hereontheedge.com/2014/05/09/another-great-talk-with-the-next-generation/

One marvelous thing leads to another...

March 27, 2014

    I have the habit of looking at photos of people and reading the names underneath, thinking maybe there will be someone I know. And I sometimes find that there is. This time, it was a relative.
    Accidentally discovered, because there was an interesting article in Oregon Quarterly, Winter 2013, about Gordon Gilkey, the man behind the movie “Monuments Men” about saving art work from the Nazis during WWII. And this topic greatly interests me.
    In this issue also was an excerpt from a book about the conscientious objectors in World War II, and there was a photo, and under the photo were names. One of them was Dick Brown. I knew that Mom’s cousin Dick had been a C.O. so I emailed the photo to Mom and she said, “Yes, that’s him.” The book is Here on the Edge by Steve McQuiddy.

    Today I went to Tsunami Bookstore to see if they had a copy of the book, so I could give it to Mom for her birthday. She will be 89 tomorrow. I was carrying my copy of the Oregon Quarterly and when I walked in the door, the girl at the front desk was busy with a guy who looked like he was selling or consigning some books. So I decided to go to the restroom first. When I came out, she was free, so I showed her the article and asked her, “Do you have this book?” She said, “Oh, I was just talking to that guy.” I said, “What guy?” She said the author of the book; he had just dropped off a box of books for them to sell. I said, “Really??? Seriously? That was the guy you were just talking to when I came in?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Where is he?” She said he was gone; he had just gotten into his car and driven away on his way to the beach for a presentation. I showed her Dick Brown’s picture on the cover, and told her that he was my mom’s cousin. It seemed odd to me, how calm she was, like this was the most common thing in the world to have happen. But I was astonished.
    Maybe that’s why things like this happen to me - because I am continually astonished by them. Yes, I do enjoy the astonishing life.
    She told me that Steve McQuiddy was planning to do a presentation at City Club of Eugene tomorrow, so I bought the book. I guess I’ll go tomorrow, and ask him to sign the copy for Mom.
    So when I got home, I went to Steve McQuiddy’s website and looked around... he is a historian, and he has also written about Opal Whitely. He has fascinating links to fascinating history archival websites. I can get lost in that.


http://hereontheedge.com/

First Kiss

“Two little lovebirds
sitting in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G…”

(Remember the rest? … first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage! So glad we had that rhyme to teach us how it works!)

Anyway, my friend Mona’s blog made me reflect about my first kiss.

When I was in 7th grade, one of my best friends lived in the rural farm town of Ridgefield, Washington, about 30 miles from the Portland suburb where I had recently moved. David Baker was a year older than I. My friend had a huge crush on him; in fact all the girls at her school did. He was a quiet, shy, skinny kid, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a few freckles across his nose. Maybe it was because I was a mysterious stranger, an unknown girl from the city, that he took a liking to me.

In my new home in an upper-middle class suburb, living next door to doctors’ and lawyers’ kids, I was the plain and homely kid wearing sale-rack clothing. My parents’ teacher’s salaries were not on the same level as theirs. But when I went to visit my friend in this rural farm town, the other kids didn’t look down on me; in fact just the opposite. They thought I was cute and cool. Probably it was the novelty of the “new girl” in a small town, because I was nothing much to look at during that awkward growing-up stage.

It was the first of May, the fresh sunshine of spring in the air, and Ridgefield was having their annual May Day celebration that Saturday. There was a small town parade in the dusty streets, and all the kids were out looking for fun. We found David and some other friends, and went out to hang out in a wooded spot somewhere nearby. David and I climbed a tree and sat on a large branch side-by-side. He was holding my hand, and then he leaned over and kissed me.
It was more of a peck than a kiss, awkward (we were trying not to fall off the branch) and as I remember we were sitting a few inches apart. Both of us shy and not certain what to do. To be honest, I was more thrilled by the fact that a boy liked me, than by a feeling of attraction toward him in particular. The fact that this was a boy that the other girls considered hot, added extra appeal, of course.

Perhaps there was a tad bit of guilt about the fact that it was my friend’s crush. But she had been chasing him shamelessly, embarrassing him in front of the other kids, loudly proclaiming her love for him. It was obvious it was going nowhere. She was a fun and funny girl, always had everyone in stitches, and she didn’t seem to mind much that he liked me. In fact, she quickly transferred her affections to one of his friends, and continued to try to “fix us up” after my departure. But, like Mona said, boys don’t write letters. I think David did write back to me once, though. And he called long distance a few times. But I fell in love with another boy in my own town soon thereafter (my “first love” at age 13) and I didn’t miss David.

A year later when David got his driver’s license, he and some friends drove to my town to visit. They weren’t very interesting to me. I was attracted to the bohemian, artistic, hippy boys with long hair. David and his friends were country boys, cowboys, with short hair, playing country-western music on the car radio — not my type at all. He probably felt the same way about me, because he didn’t pursue it.

As my life traipsed along its own path, I protested the war in Vietnam, and held disdain for the young men who didn’t resist the draft, those who went to war unquestioning. Now I have more compassion for them, more understanding about why they did it, but back then, I held the opinion that if they would just refuse to go, the war would end. I felt it was an unjust war, and it needed to be over, and in my idealistic teenage brain I thought that if people would just refuse to participate, it would end. That was the rhetoric at the time, and it seemed to make sense.

Not long after his visit, David went into the army. I don’t know whether he enlisted or was drafted. I stayed in contact with my friend from Ridgefield; she married (I was her maid of honor) and had three children before I finished college.

It wasn’t until many years later that I visited her town, and we were reminiscing and sharing laughter about our teenage foibles and I said, “I wonder whatever happened to David Baker.” And she said matter-of-factly, “He was killed in Vietnam.” I was incredulous… how could that have happened, that my “first kiss” — a boy I would never forget — was killed in Vietnam so many years before, and I hadn’t known? My friend assumed I knew, of course. Everyone in their town had known, and certainly he wasn’t the only casualty. Still, I was surprised at how emotionless she sounded.

The next time I saw her was probably 15 years later. I asked her, are you sure that David Baker was killed in Vietnam? She said yes. I don’t think I really believed her. I wondered if his name was inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington D.C. and I thought I would look for it if I ever had the opportunity to go there.

Then in 2005 a traveling version of the Vietnam memorial came to where I live. Set up in a grassy field in a park was the black wall, along with photos, messages and other memorabilia left by families and friends of the dead sons, brothers, husbands, fathers… Along with the other visitors, I was moved to tears.

I thought there would be no hope of finding a name… but there was! Under a tent were several books on stands, huge volumes with names of all the dead whose names are on the wall. I found David’s name, David Wallace Baker, Ridgefield, Washington, his birth date and the date he died. That’s when I remembered that his birthday had been the day before mine. He was less than 6 months past his 19th birthday when he died; he did not even live to see adulthood.

And the book told what section of the wall to find his name, so I went to look.

It wasn’t until that moment that I truly believed that this was how my first kiss’s life ended, just in the bud of youth, right after I graduated from high school, probably on the same day as my first day of college. The skinny quiet, freckly kid, who shyly gave me my first kiss, sitting on a tree branch, that sunny dusty day in May 1965.

I didn’t have any photos of David, but I found one online. I have a few of myself and my friend and some of her high school events around that time. David was there, but I didn’t take his picture. I also have a few of my friend’s wedding, which I think was in 1970, the year David died, the year I graduated from high school.

Also, I would like to share a few of the pictures I took on the day that I last *saw* David Baker, his name on the Vietnam Memorial Wall.