I haven’t written in awhile. To write about the presidential election in Augusta County is to beat your head against the wall or beat a dead horse, depending on your perspective. The Republican will win about 75 percent of the vote.
To write about local issues seems too small. It is akin to asking Mrs. Lincoln how she liked the play.
I had made a gesture by putting four Democratic signs in my yard: one Ken Mitchell, one Tim Kaine and two Kamala Harris. It wasn’t meant to offend the three out of four passers-by, but to let the other 25 percent know that they were not alone.
Thursday, on return from a week visiting two of my grandchildren in Texas, there were only two standing: Kaine and Mitchell. Not a first-time event. It was the long-ago theft of a Chuck Robb sign that incensed one of my then young sons to emotionally point-out, “Dad, robbers took your sign”.
So here I am, not expecting to change a single vote, but to proclaim, “This is America” and I will have my say.
And in my America, we are willing to serve our country and honor those who already have. A would-be Commander-in-Chief who defiles the sacrifices of past heroes is simply unfit for the office of President.
And quite frankly, if I am left with just the few, not the many, I will still stand my ground and share my truth:
I was born to a Gold Star Widow. Her first love was killed in action in France. Nazis under the order of German generals, who were following the orders of a demented, but popular hater of others, Adolf Hitler killed so many of “our boys.”
Private Bruce Peters never held my sister nor got to enjoy the freedom he helped provide.
My father’s youngest brother, Pfc. Bill Pyles, helped liberate Italy from Hitler’s killers as part of the 87th Mountain Infantry. He survived his combat tour, and though being deployed continuously over two years, came home to a newborn.
This home-front betrayal, at a time before knowledge of PTSD, high rates of suicide among returning warriors, emotional readjustment to civilian life, led young Billy Pyles to drink himself to death. My father found him passed-out, eaten up with gangrene, outside a vacationing aunt’s home. He died days later.
My middle son was given the name of my godfather, Weston Hoy. Weston was a handsome young man, full of fun and life. A Korean sniper ended that promising future when this young Christian answered his nation’s call in that war against communist aggression.
Viet Nam was my time. The modest rural village of Deerfield, where most homes proudly displayed an 8×11 picture of their WWII hero, sent more than its share of servicemen. McWhorter, Whitson, Harris, Cale, Bartley, Burgandine, Paxton, Dorsey, Kelley, Graham, Cole, and even a Pyles were willing to serve.
None of us could afford college and none of us sought or knew a doctor who would fake a medical injury to get us out of service.
This nation disproportionally counts on middle- and lower-income families to fight our national battles. And truth be told, would you rather go into battle with the ones with calloused hands or those with manicured nails?
Once discharged, I met up with, and bonded with, other veterans at Madison College. One Viet Nam combat veteran was Staunton’s Graham Ludwig, with whom I had a lasting friendship. I was in his wedding, he in mine.
We would visit Washington’s Wall. Always an emotional time. Once when driving to Florida, and crossing a series of railroad tracks, Graham abruptly awoke yelling “incoming, incoming.” Graham died young, at 56, from a form of Parkinson’s disease. Agent Orange is a known cause of Parkinson’s.
All gave some, some gave all.
In contrast there is Donald Trump. Because he cannot understand honor and duty he seeks to diminish those who do. John McCain, a combat pilot, shot down, beaten to the extent of permanent arm damage, refusing to be released from captivity until his fellow captives were also released, was not considered a hero, by a Manhattan pretty boy, because he was shot down. (The mind reels.)
On a Howard Stern broadcast, he called the dating scene in New York (absent the deployed brave) his Viet Nam as he navigated the “dangers” of STDs. Of course, no notice of perhaps impregnating a one-night stand leading to an abortion or another surprise for a returning warrior.
And no comparison between a night with a just met teenager, and a dark night of agent orange rain, war-hardened Viet Cong guerillas, or a fog of war fatality from friendly fire.
And though we used to call out cowards, shun draft-dodgers, and honor those with honor due, today too many have not just forgotten how we nationally became great but their own American moral compasses. “Give us your tired …”
They have forgotten that the Bible rejects the tribalism of the Old Testament by having a new covenant where we are all part of one flock. That our national motto is “E Pluribus Unum”: out of many, one. Our flag is a living part of us. It is dishonored when groped and desecrated when soiled with a draft-dodger’s name.
So, here’s the deal. If you want to plant a sign or a flag in support of Kamala Harris, but fear agitating your neighbor, use my yard. It’s at 3665 Churchville Avenue. Fill it up, let the lost know there is a better way.
Tracy Pyles is a former chair of the Augusta County Board of Supervisors.
Share
