Mary Travis of Peter, Paul and Mary left us this week.
Her passing reminded me of the days and weeks and months and years that I tried in my own small way to be heard.
I protested the war in
Vigorously.
I never felt I was protesting against our troops.
I believed I was protesting for them- because I could.
Because, as high school graduation approached, I saw the light dim in the eyes of the guys I knew as they saw their possible fate approaching.
I protested because of Patrick Haley.
Did I ever tell you about Pat?
He went to Notre Dame with my brother.
He was 10 years older than I was, but a dear friend on whom I had a probably not so secret crush (how good are 11 year olds at keeping crushes a secret?) But I was a pragmatist even then and Pat was engaged to a beautiful, accomplished woman and I accepted the little sister role with what I hope was good grace.
I must have succeeded to some extent because night that he and my brother graduated from Notre Dame, he told me after dinner that he was being shipped out to
Pat was Air Force ROTC (my brother was Navy).
Pat told me before he told his mom or even his fiancée.
The moment he told me is frozen in time.
Because the moment he told me, I knew he was not coming back.
And he did not.
He flew chopper rescues and was lost in his second tour.
My brother accompanied his body home.
My brother never really recovered from the fact that he was not sent over.
Survivor guilt.
It happens.
It is unnecessary because we all have our part to play in this drama of life…and yet it happens.
But, that is why I protested. I was never unkind to a soldier or a sailor or a marine.
I was a pen pal and sent packages to guys I never knew.
But I protested- screaming in to wind as my friends were fed to the jungles of
So where have all the flowers gone?
I do not know, Mary Travis. After all these years, I still do not know.
