The world is turning wondrous again, maples and ash and goldenrod turning golden Van Gogh colors and I got into a weepy mood on Tuesday, which is unusual for me, a man with dry eyes, but I was overwhelmed by everything happening at once, thinking of an old friend and sweet singer who’d died, and on Tuesday a reunion of my Anoka high school class (1960), feeling kinship to old rivals and antagonists but now we’re all in the same boat, a sinking ship. The names of some of our dead were mentioned, including Henry Hill Jr., a star athlete and a good guy who enlisted in the Army and made first lieutenant and was killed in action in Quang Ngai province in 1968, leading his unit of the 11th Light Infantry Brigade of the Americal Division.
The woman who spoke of Henry remembered a few lines of a song I wrote about him, “His picture’s on the piano in a silver frame and his family weeps if you speak his name. In ’68 he went off to the war and now he’s forever 24.”
And then that evening I opened my phone to find a picture of twin baby girls born the night before in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon, to my nephew Jon and his wife, Hieu, two sleeping infants tightly wrapped with little skullcaps, arrived by C-section. Each of them has two names, a Vietnamese and an American, and the plan is that they’ll have a Vietnamese childhood and then come to America to start school. Vietnam is in lockdown to control COVID and so their American grandma can’t go see them but she can study them on FaceTime all she likes.
It was too much for one day, so I sat and wept, remembering that I was not a good father — I never wanted to be one — I only wanted to go down to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I asked was a tall ship and a star to steer her by. But Suzanne took me down to her place by the river and the sight of her turned my brain matter to Jell-O and I touched her perfect body with my mind and instead of the white sail’s shaking and a grey dawn breaking suddenly I was eating breakfast with a lady with a basketball under her nightgown who was nauseous and held me responsible.
A lot for one day, to see up close the ravages of old age and remember the tragedy of Henry Hill and then to see these beautiful sleeping infants in Saigon, the center of one of our country’s two disastrous wars of my era, children of parents born after that war ended, and all this coming at a time when I, along with most people I know, am fearing for the future of our beloved country for which Lieutenant Hill’s life was taken: the heart breaks, it simply does.
Henry is remembered not for his athleticism so much as his openhearted friendship with everyone he knew. He was a Black kid in a very white school and kindness was in his nature. He would’ve been an excellent daddy, but he put on the uniform and followed orders and was killed soon after arrival. And now these two infants lie sleeping who someday will come to America and pledge allegiance and learn to play basketball, maybe ice hockey, and maybe they’ll come to love jokes and cheeseburgers and one day sit beside the Mississippi and if I’m still around, I’d sing “Shall we gather at the river where bright angels’ feet have trod” and then maybe “I got a feeling called the blues, oh Lord, since my baby said goodbye. Lord, I don't know what I’ll do, all I do is sat and sigh” so they get to hear both sides.
I looked up the song I wrote long ago; the last verse is:
I’m older now and bitter today At how our country has lost its way But the young ones coming, I hope they will Redeem the faith of Henry Hill.
It’s a large responsibility to put on two infant girls and their parents but I do. My classmates and I are united by our mortality and the young are united by possibility. We have learned nothing from history; the little girls will grow up free of our history and I pray they find their way to the shining river that flows by the throne of God.
**************************************
Our archive feature show this week is from our base camp at the Fitzgerald Theater on Exchange Street in Saint Paul, Minnesota. The California Honeydrops ward off the autumn chill with smokin' Bay Area R&B, and The Cactus Blossoms sing their sweet songs in sibling harmony. Christine DiGiallonardo adds a touch of Brooklyn to scripts and duets. Join the fanbase community on Facebook at 5 PM Saturday or listen right here.
EVENTS COMING UP
Oct 2 Sellersville Theater, Sellersville PA (Live Stream available)
Oct 3 Mauch Chunk Opera House, Jim Thorpe PA
Oct 12 City Winery Boston
Oct 13 City Winery New York City
Oct 20 The Birchmere in Alexandria, VA
On Tuesday it all came down at once
Beautiful. You are Legend, GK.
I’m on that sinking ship as well. Covid preempted our 50th class reunion, but I don’t think there’s much enthusiasm for getting together again. Its difficult to witness the ravages of time in one’s mirror, but that’s just a reflection. Seeing your friends in similar decline makes it very real.
I feel that fear for our nation as well. I also feel a measure of guilt for leaving this nation in such a state of disrepair, physically and morally. I realize that we baby boomers did’t start the fire, but we didn’t really try to fight it. During the decades of our ascendancy we turned selfish and short-sighted. Our parents generation built interstate highways, thousands of schools, cleaned up polluted skies and rivers, saved species from extinction, landed on the moon and dealt acid rain and depleted ozone, passed the Civil Rights Act and Voting Rights Act and provided some measure of medical care for the elderly.
Since we took over…not so much.