In the first installment of this series of sketches in this space provided courtesy of my old yellow brick road magical mystery tour merry prankster fellow traveler, Peter Paul Markin, I mentioned, in grabbing an old Bruce Springsteen CD compilation from 1998 to download into my iPod that I came across a song that stopped me in my tracks, Brothers Under The Bridge. I had not listened to or thought about that song for a long time but it brought back many memories from the late 1970s when I did a series of articles for the now defunct East Bay Eye (California East Bay, naturally) on the fate of some troubled Vietnam veterans who, for one reason or another, could not come to grips with “going back to the real world”and took, like those a Great Depression generation or two before them, to the“jungle”-the hobo, bum, tramp camps located along the abandoned railroad sidings, the ravines and crevices, and under the bridges of California, mainly down in Los Angeles, and created their own “society.”
The editor of the East Bay Eye, Owen Anderson, gave me that long ago assignment after I had done a smaller series for the paper on the treatment, the poor treatment, of Vietnam veterans by the Veterans Administration in San Francisco and in the course of that series had found out about this band of brothers roaming the countryside trying to do the best they could, but mainly trying to keep themselves in one piece. My qualifications for the assignment other than empathy, since I had not been in the military during the Vietnam War period, were based simply on the fact that back East I had been involved, along with several other radicals, in running an anti-war GI coffeehouse near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and down near Fort Dix in New Jersey. During that period I had run into many soldiers of my 1960s generation who had clued me in on the psychic cost of the war so I had a running start.
After making connections with some Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) guys down in L.A. who knew where to point me I was on my way. I gathered many stories, published some of them in the Eye, and put the rest in my helter-skelter files. A while back, after having no success in retrieving the old Eye archives, I went up into my attic and rummaged through what was left of those early files. I could find no newsprint articles that I had written but I did find a batch of notes, specifically notes from stories that I didn’t file because the Eye went under before I could round them into shape.
The ground rules of those long ago stories was that I would basically let the guy I was talking to give his spiel, spill what he wanted the world to hear, and I would write it up without too much editing (mainly for foul language). I, like with the others in this series, have reconstructed this story as best I can although at this far remove it is hard to get the feel of the voice and how things were said.
Not every guy I interviewed, came across, swapped lies with, or just snatched some midnight phrase out of the air from was from hunger. Most were, yes, in one way or another but some, and the one I am recalling in this sketch from that time fits this description, had no real desire to advertise their own hunger but just wanted to get something off their chest about some lost buddy, or some event they had witnessed. I have presented enough of these sketches both back in the day and here to not make a generalization about what a guy might be hiding in the deep recesses of his mind. Some wanted to give a blow by blow description of every firefight (and every hut torched) they were involved in, others wanted to blank out ‘Nam completely and talk of before or after times, as is the case here with the Francis Allen Edwards, who wanted to talk about home and family, the home and family he never fit in with, and the anguish that drove him to enlist in the Army to get as he said “his head screwed on right.” Unfortunately that decision solved nothing and he never did fit in. So all he wanted to do was have me print a piece from him, as he said, in lieu of a letter, after he heard that his mother had passed away to try to even things out. I like to finish up these introductions by placing these sketches under a particular sign; no question Francis Allen Edwards’ sign was that of “in lieu of a letter.”
**************
To My Mother, Doris Margaret Edwards, nee Ridley, In Lieu Of A Letter
I have been estranged from my family for over fifteen years and therefore any memories, good or bad, are colored by that fact. I did not attend my father Paul Edwards’ funeral as I was out in a no address, no forwarding address ravine in Southern California. I also missed my younger brother Kenneth’s funeral [he had died young of cancer and had a history of mental problems] for the same reason and, along the way, those of others in the family as well. Now I have missed my mother’s funeral. This says more about me than anything I might offer as an excuse for past circumstances. The time for that is now well past.
Last May [1979] when I finally did get off my high horse and try to connect with the family again, or at least find out what had happened to it and attempt to make my peace Ann-Charlotte (Uncle Harold’s daughter) suggested that I write letters to my family members (not to be delivered, of course) as the way to make my peace. I took her up on that idea and wrote the letters.
My father I believe, as all who knew him knew was his way, forgave me. After all I was one of his boys. Good or bad that was all he cared about. All my life I did a great wrong to that poor, hardworking man that I will always have to carry with me. Although it is far too late let me say something here publicly that I never told him but should have shouted from the rooftops. Dad, I am proud that you were my father. My poor brother Kenneth, I fear, was much less forgiving. He said he could have used my help during his life long struggle against his demons within. I have to live with that knowledge as well. So be it.
I did not write a letter then to my mother because I believed that I still had a possibility of making things right. To my regret I never got the chance. Once again, as has happened more than a few times in my life, my timing was off and I was too late. I have now written her a private letter that, along with those to my father and brother, is consigned to oblivion. Like in my father’s case I have done my mother a great wrong all my life. This too I will have to live with. My old memories however, such as they are, can now be looked at with a greater fondness and understanding of what they did for me.
If in my life I have reacted to situations too absurdly or dishonestly rather than in an emotionally balanced way don’t blame my mother. In her understated, and probably partially unconscious, way she taught me to simply be truthful and to fight for what I believed in. I have honored that wisdom more in the breech than in the observance. However, I have gotten better at it. From the mist of memories I remember two things that she always remarked on about me in a positive way- I was always looking for that next mythical mountain to climb and that I was a survivor. Well, she was right on both counts. And I am still at it. Thanks, Ma.
If all of this does not reflect adequately the way I feel today- know this. Doris Margaret Edwards, nee Ridley was my mother. I was her son. In the end, not without some terrible struggle, I recognized that she was my mother. That too should have long ago been shouted from the rooftops. I hope that in the end she recognized that I was her son.
Now she has gone to be reunited with her beloved husband Paul, after years without his comfort, and also with her son Kenneth. May they all rest in peace.
Francis Allen Edwards
No comments:
Post a Comment