Although it is summertime
now, one way to keep
Christmas in your heart
all year long is to
remember the lessons of
Christmas throughout the
year. This brings me to
recall something very
special that happened to
two men and three
children, and bears
repeating.
Very early in the morning
last December, my husband
and my eight year old son
happened across a United
States Army soldier on an
exit ramp near the town
where we live. It was a
very cold Sunday morning,
when frost lay on the
ground and tree limbs were
stark and twisted against
a thick gray sky. Not too
many other cars were out,
and those who were out
were hurrying to get
somewhere, exhaust coming
from each car in
warm-looking puffs as they
glided down the highway,
frost still on the
windshields. My husband
and son were coming home
from my son's 6 AM hockey
game, and looking forward
to getting breakfast out
together and then
returning home, where the
rest of us lay dreaming.
As my husband approached
the end of the ramp the
soldier got out of his
car, a gray Maxima that
had broken down. The
soldier was in full dress
uniform, and was cold, and
very young; early
twenties, my husband
guessed. My husband pulled
over to see what he could
do to help. The soldier
needed a cell phone, he
said he was going to call
his girlfriend to see if
she could come and get him
and his two daughters.
(his daughters were
bundled into the cold car)
and bring them back home
to Derry, NH, where they
lived.
My husband looked into the
car and saw the soldier's
four year old, dressed in
her best party dress, and
a baby, zipped up to her
chin into her thick
snuggly. The three of them
had been on their way to a
Christmas party at the
Boston barracks when the
car had chosen that time
to die. At this point, the
soldier was just trying to
get home; the party had
been given up on. The
little girl grinned at my
husband from the back
seat, and I know he must
have grinned back at her,
too.
My husband moved the
little girls into our car,
where the four year old
proceeded to become very
interested in my eight
year old, "she was
patting me," he
reported in a resigned way
to me later, upon the
re-telling of their
memorable morning, and the
men talked about the young
soldier's options. My
husband told me that this
young man was, to him, a
soldier first. Someone who
already, with his young
life, had done much for us
just by his service, but
he was also a young man
who still didn't have all
the answers. We have a son
of our own who is just a
few years younger than
this soldier who was
sitting beside him. The
soldier didn't have Triple
A, and he had no one to
call for help. As the baby
stared, round-eyed, at
them all, my husband
offered his Triple A for a
tow, and then offered to
take the soldier and the
children into Boston for
the party. The soldier had
decided to just try to get
back home, and so they
called for the tow and my
husband offered to drive
the three of them back to
New Hampshire.
They chatted as they
waited; my husband
commented that the
Christmas party sure was
early, if they had been on
the road at six in the
morning, and the soldier
commented that "the
army does everything
early." They all sat
together, my family and
his, and then headed up
north after the tow truck
came, the soldier's
broken-down car following
behind them.
There is the Tomb of the
Unknown Soldier, guarded
twenty-four hours a day
with honor in Washington,
D.C., but there is also
the living Unknown
Soldier, among us every
day. Crippled by war,
perhaps, or mentally
ravaged by what he has
seen in a country far
away, or maybe just young,
and needing a hand with
the stuff of everyday
life, they are here, with
us right now. We are
sometimes stymied by the
American soldier. How do
you begin to thank people
who pick up a gun and say
good-bye to everyone who
matters and fly far away
because they believe in
protecting the country we
all live in?
Sometimes, you give them a
cell phone and your Triple
A, and make sure their
children are warm. My
husband watched the
uniformed soldier and his
dressed-up little girls
climb the steps of their
big old three-family
house, where toys dotted
the yard and the frost was
beginning to thaw and show
the green underneath. My
husband was reluctant to
talk about this to me,
downplaying the aid he had
offered. But eight year
olds sing like canaries. I
think my husband feels
that at the end of the
day, it was just one dad
helping another dad get
his children home. And one
man helping another, too,
trying, through his
actions to say thank you
very much, Unknown
Soldier, for all you have
given up and gone through
and laid down for all of
us, even though to you, we
are Unknown Americans.
Copyright 2008 Deirdre
Reilly
Deirdre Reilly is a
nationally syndicated
humorist and family life
columnist. This column
first appeared in December
2007 in many Gatehouse
News Service newspapers.
You can connect with
Deirdre Reilly at www.exhaustedrapunzel.com.
Song: I'll Be
Home For Christmas
Vocal: Oak Ridge Boys
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