“You were called, you served,
you are one of us”
…reflecting a common thread
that runs through most
American families

Among the moments, people, and words I am thinking about as Veterans Day approaches, is that sentence spoken to me, in the heart of Hanoi, Vietnam by former U.S. Army nurse and Vietnam War veteran, Diane Evans.

It was shortly before New Years Day, 1998. Diane and I were among over 30 American Vietnam-Era veterans, able-bodied and disabled, who were in Hanoi to team up with a similar cross-section of our old enemy, North Vietnamese veterans of that same war… to ride bicycles and handcycles 1,200 miles south to Ho Chi Minh City as one team, demonstrating reconciliation and healing, and insofar as our disabled teammates were concerned… abilities rather than disabilities.

The first few days in Hanoi, before the start of this much-anticipated ride, was a very emotional time for everyone especially our paraplegic, blind and amputee American teammates. Some 30 years earlier, they had left the country as seriously injured medical evacuees.

A day before the start of the ride, the Peoples Republic of Vietnam government made a request that the American veterans participate in a ceremony to lay a wreath at the tomb of the unknown (North Vietnamese) soldier, near Ho Chi Minh’s tomb. This was a tough request for many of our veterans to deal with. A meeting was called to discuss how we should respond to the request. As most were heading to the meeting in one of our team buses, I ran into Diane as I was walking in the opposite direction.

When asked by Diane why I wasn’t walking toward the meeting, I told her that since I ended up serving my time in the Army stateside from 1970-72, I did not feel that it was appropriate for me to attend. That was when Diane responded; “You were called, you served, you are one of us.” I will never forget her response. It was a watershed moment for me. Years of inexplicable guilt feelings that I was one of the fortunate ones not sent to the war zone drained out of me at that moment.

I tell you the above story simply to illustrate the bond that exists among veterans, especially veterans who served during wartime. Be assured, I was not swept up by a strong sense of duty in 1970 that sent me racing to the nearest recruiter. It was a war that I felt the U.S. had no business being a part of. The fact is, my local Minnesota draft board (literally) had my number.

Be that as it may, I have since harbored a pride in, a kinship with, and at least a reasonable understanding of, all those who have served this country in uniform. Although I, along with most Americans, will never fully comprehend the experiences, and sacrifices, made by those who found themselves in harms way… we can all honor these sacrifices, and certainly most families do. They do because most American families have a thread of military service running through their generations. And the various members of each family’s history who are, or were, veterans represent significant pages in that history. Similarly, those who kept the home fires burning —the spouses, the parents, and the children of those who served on foreign soil in times of war— were impacted in heart-wrenching ways… often lasting ways that can never be forgotten.

A couple of columns ago, I mentioned my trip back to Minnesota last fall for a college reunion. During that trip, I visited the Fort Snelling National Cemetery near the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers south of Minneapolis. Amid hundreds of acres of white marble markers is the grave of my Dad, William K. Wicken, a World War II veteran. In that setting, it is impossible not to be moved while standing over a familiar piece of marble, as the singular brass sound of “Taps” from one of a half-dozen daily burials drifts across the vast acres of cumulative sacrifice. This was another moment that comes to mind for me as Veterans Day approaches.

As you read this column on its publication day, Nov. 11, Veterans Day 2009, I expect to be joining a good friend made during that memorable 1,200 mile bike ride in 1998 through the cities, villages and beautiful countryside of Vietnam, as he speaks to the student body of Arapahoe High School near Denver, Colo.

Arte Geurerro was a marine serving in Vietnam when he was injured. He has been wheelchair-bound for decades, yet his heart, enthusiasm and passion is bigger than life itself. Those who know Arte know all about what he can do. That which he can’t do is clearly in the background. And among all the things he can do, is to be a very effective spokesman for all the men and women who are serving, or have served, in America’s military services.

It will be a distinct privilege to join my good friend as he delivers what surely will be a memorable message to a few hundred students in a cavernous Colorado gymnasium. I hope it causes most, if not all, of them to reflect on that impressive common thread of service that runs through their respective family histories this Veterans Day.

“We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are,” Garrison Keillor.

And among those adjectives that describe who I am, “grandfather” can now be added to the list! My wife, Judy, and I will be in Denver during the week of Veterans Day to meet our now month-old first grandchild, Cooper Allen Wicken, born on Oct. 7 to our younger son, Christopher, and his lovely wife, Quinn. Needless to say, we can’t wait to give this handsome little guy a big hug or two!

Per usual, your thoughts and comments are welcome. Jot them down on the back of your generous check made payable to the Cooper Allen Wicken College Fund, and place it inside the log door of our mudroom on the west shore of Gull Pond, or simply launch an email toward allenwicken@yahoo.com.