READERS TALES
1968
I
returned from Viet Nam in the early springtime of 1968. After 366 in the
depths of Hell, the U.S. Army, in it's infinite wisdom had sent me home on 30
days leave in my wife's hometown of Rittman, Ohio prior to reporting for the
last 10 months of duty before being discharged.
After the
majority of my leave was gone, I needed a haircut before heading for Fort Know for my last
ten months of active duty. On a warm, sunny, spring day, I went into the small town
of Rittman to a barbershop just off the tiny square. After having the necessary hair
removed and the obligatory banter with the barber, I paid the bill and stepped into the
bright sunshine. Turning left, I headed back up the street to where I'd parked and
almost ran into my old high school economics teacher, Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson
isn't his real name. I withhold that in respect both for the man himself and his
family. He was wearing the same dark blue pinstripe suit I remembered from high
school class, his still black hair glistening and combed tight against his skull.
Well, hello,
Mr. Thompson," I said cheerfully, genuinely glad to see him. He'd been one of
my favourite teachers in days gone by. "Well, Bill, I'm glad to see you.
I'm glad you made it back from Viet Nam safely. I often wondered about you and hoped
you'd come home safely," he said.
We continued
to chat about trivial things, inquiring about each others' health and so on for a few
minutes until I ended the conversation by excusing myself, saying that my wife would be
wondering where I had gotten to. He asked about my wife since he had also taught her
in another school. I told him that she was fine and looking forward to going to Fort
Knox with me. We shook hands, wishing each other the best and I walked away as Mr.
Thompson crossed the street.
When I walked
into the kitchen of my father-in-law's 100 year-old Ohio farmhouse, my wife and her Dad
were sitting at the kitchen table. I helped myself to a cup of coffee and sat down
with them. Turning to my wife I said, "Shirley, guess who I ran into in town?
Mr. Thompson." All colour immediately drained from her 22 year old face.
After a few moments silence she said, "Who?" I answered, "You know,
Mr. Thompson, my old economics teacher from High School!"
After a long
silence, Shirley said, "Bill, you couldn't have seen Mr. Thompson, he died while you
were in Viet Nam!" When I told her that she must be thinking of someone else,
she left the room for a few moments, returning with a clipping from the Wooster newspaper.
The clipping
contained a picture of a middle-aged man in a dark blue pinstriped suit, his black hair
shining and combed back tight against his skull. There was a photo of Mr. Thompson
with his obituary listed in newspaper type below. He had died while I was away.
