For some, Veterans Day comes 365 times a year
I get back to Northfield late in the afternoon most days; it feels like evening now, since we set the clocks back. McDonald's is just turning on its lights, and dinner is still warm in the bag when I turn the engine off on a side street overlooking the Veterans Memorial.
I come to have dinner with my boys, to watch the sun set and to see the colors change on the hand-hammered metal sculptures. I served as a medic in Vietnam, and those listed here are all my boys. The ones you remember most are the ones you could not save.
Every night is different. Geese feed on the grassy slopes near the river; dried leaves blow across the engraved paving stones; a light drizzle barely wets the windshield.
On warmer evenings, a tandem bicycle might ride through -- a father in front with his daughter on the back seat. He stops, points at a stone, speaks to her about something, and adjusts her helmet. Another night, someone jogs through, or walks a dog. Small groups of elderly folk side-step through the park, the women in scarves clutching dark purses. "I think he's over here," someone says.
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The sun sets. An old man who seems to prefer the shadows appears, with a wrinkled fishing cap and diamond willow cane. He stops at the tall, black stone bearing the names of the fallen, removes his hat and presses his palm against the marble. Then he returns his cap to his head and wanders down under the dim street lights and past the geese, who barely take notice.
There is something about the hour when day transitions into night, when shadows blend and deepen, and for a moment everything takes on a bluish hue more sacred than any church. The blue moment feels like a portal and for a breath I feel connected to the infinite, and then it's gone, and so are they.
For some of us, every night is Veteran's Day.
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Steven James Beto, Northfield, served as an Air Force medic in 1971-72 at Phu Cat and Bien Hoa Air Bases in South Vietnam. He is a source in MPR's Public Insight Network.