Minnewaska Musings

By Paul Gremmels

Author’s Note: Our community suffered a devastating loss with Deputy Josh Owen being killed in the line of duty less than 10 days ago.

My heart goes out to his family and loved ones; as well as to his “second family” of law enforcement, EMS, fire department, city and county employees. My usual quirky, little column that occupies this space seemed out of place and wholly inadequate to address the somber mood of our community. 

Instead, I share a parallel story of loss and working through grief.  It is drawn from a speech I made on Memorial Day, 2007.  It is what has worked for me over the years.  My hope is that it helps to lighten someone’s day… 

“Your absence passes through me.

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do, will be stitched,

With your color.”

–W. S. Merwin

     

His name was “Biggs” and we served together in the Marine Corps. We were soul mates of a sort, buddies. He was my best friend and we went through a great deal together. Biggs, of course, was not his real name. It was a nickname, presumably given to him because of his physical stature. But besides his towering height, broad shoulders, powerful arms and legs, I always felt that the name fit him best because he had a big smile, a big laugh and a big heart. The type of person that when in his presence, would make you feel stronger, braver, better. Having come from dismal beginnings himself, he was always empathetic to the poor, downtrodden and less fortunate. To be certain, he was strong and brave, but I think his greatest attribute was that of his unbreakable, light hearted spirit.

We were on watch together one morning, observing the sunrise, when we received word that a friend of ours had been killed the night before. Looking straight ahead, with tears in his eyes, Biggs tilted his helmet back and said;

“The dawn doesn’t break or crack.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well.” He continued. “You know when people say things like ‘the break of day’ or ‘the crack of dawn?’  It’s not like that. It’s more like the dawn builds and grows and pushes the darkness back. It does not break or crack.”

     

Biggs and I were nearing the end of our tours at about the same time. Biggs decided to reenlist. He had been selected to enter a Special Operations group. I decided to take my discharge and go on to college. Biggs saw me off at the bus station at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina. We promised to stay in touch and he kidded me about being a ‘college boy’.  Then he laughed. That wonderful, booming laughter. Laughter that had brought light to so many terribly dark places and times. Laughter, that I still hear in my mind to this day. We embraced, tapped our fists together and parted.

Sometime later, while staying at my parent’s home, awaiting to go off to college, I received a phone call from my former Commanding Officer. Back in the day when you only had one landline phone in your house. My mother answered the call and I will never forget how she held one hand to her mouth as she handed me the phone with the other. A mother’s intuition.

“Biggs is dead.” He said.

He had been killed when the helicopter he was riding in went down, withdrawing from an American installation that he and his unit had defended and evacuated from a surrounding country in the midst of collapse.

Much of what occurred in that far away place is classified, but my former Commander did me the courtesy of telling me a few things about the final moments of my friend’s life. He said that Biggs fought with great honor and valor. Of this, I have no doubt. He said that Biggs and his team were on the final chopper to leave the installation. He said that the last radio report from the helicopter pilot had indicated that all on board were wounded, several critical and that he and his copilot were struggling to keep their helicopter airborne. Onboard the naval ship, emergency medical and rescue crews awaited their arrival. Sadly, the helicopter went down in the open sea, a few hundred yards shy of the recovery vessel. There were no survivors.

So what do you do with that? Do you box it up and put it in a back closet? Do you dig a deep hole and throw it all in? Or do you build a pedestal and set it on top and look at it every, single, day? I will admit to doing a little bit of all three of these things.

All of this happened many decades ago and there is not a single day that has gone by in my life since, that I haven’t thought about my friend. I have tried to emulate his quiet, humorous, demeanor. I have tried to be generous, empathetic and helpful. I have looked for opportunities to perform random acts of kindness. I have tried to live my life in a way that he would have been proud of.

It is hard, because although the hole in my heart may have gotten smaller over the years, I have come to believe that it will never completely heal. But I’m alright with that now. Because, it has become a part of who I am.

These are the things I have learned from that long-ago tragedy: That when you go to a funeral or visit a gravesite. That when you suffer great loss and have those horrific memories flash back into your mind. That when you miss someone so badly that your heart literally aches. That when the path through the deep, black darkness seems impossible, lonely and endless. In these times, you may do well to remember what a brave, young Marine, now long since gone, once tried to tell me;

‘That yes, it is dark there. And yes, it is sad and fearful in that place. Be brave, for the dawn will come, and it will not break or crack. It will build and grow, just as you have built and grown with those whom you have lost. And when that dawn does come, it will shine the brighter. For you have had the honor of serving with, as we have all had the honor of being guarded by, those who have given and those who are yet willing to give, their very lives, for our protection and our – freedom.’

–Paul Gremmels is an award-winning freelance writer, essayist and a columnist. He lives with his wife, Ann, in rural Pope County.  His column is published in the Pope County Tribune on the last week of each month.  He can be contacted at:
gremmels@runestone.net