When War Hits Close to Home...
Brookfield, CT is a not-so-small, not-so-big town near Danbury, in Fairfield county. When I grew up there, Hoffman's chicken farm was the biggest building on my end of Route 7, and it took you about ten minutes to get from the house I grew up in to the only movie theater in town - right next to John's Best Pizza. Hoffman's chicken farm is long gone, replaced with self storage centers and industrial buildings.
The farm where I first took horseback riding lessons is now the site of the town hall. The field we used to walk through in my neighborhood to get to the local fishing and swimming pond now is filled with a new housing development.
When I grew up there, Brookfield was a lot smaller - or seemed it. It was a place where you pretty much knew everyone in your grade in school; where people still left their doors unlocked at night, and no one locked their cars in their driveways. Brookfield is the place where I learned to ride a bike - where I got my first kiss - where I learned to drive a car - where I got my first job.
It was a nice place to grow up. It's still a pretty nice town, even if it now takes you almost a half an hour to make the trip to that movie theater, thanks to a wealth of new strip malls and stop lights.
Jason Dale Lewis grew up there.
Brookfield is still listed as his hometown:
I didn't know him. But I know his hometown well. I know the places where he and his friends probably hung out after school and on the weekends. I know the halls of the schools where he once walked. I know the roads he probably drove down too fast because of the great curves and "whoop-dee-doos" you got if you went just the right speed.
I know the pond he probably went skating on as a kid.
I asked my sister if she knew him. He was her age. She did.
This one hits close to home. Each day as I see the names, it affects me. But somehow this one is particularly strong. I remember my mother talking about when someone she went to school with was lost in Vietnam. Even if you're not close to them, seeing a familiar town on a casualty list reminds you that the people fighting this war are not just Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, or Sailors. They're sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, friends. They are ours. They are your paperboy, the kid who used to sell lemonade down the street, the little girl who fell off her bike in front of your house. They are your UPS guy, your brother's old girlfriend...or a 'nice kid,' who went to school with your sister.
One of the dangers as a war goes on is that it becomes less real, less personal. No matter what your belief about why we went, a few years into it, less and less people watch the news. Less and less people look up at the TV in the local watering hole when pictures of Soldiers flash across the screen.
Remember the first few names? The way that every single loss seemed incredibly important? And now, you hear the news reports, and it's just "in Iraq today, 4 US Soldiers were killed, bringing the total to..." The four get lost in the total. Just numbers.
But Jason wasn't a number. None of them are. Heroes to me, they're even more than that to those they leave behind. Hell, to them, they'd be heroes if they never went to war. They're Mom, or Dad, or a best friend...or a nice kid from Brookfield, CT.
Jason Dale Lewis died in Iraq on July 6. He leaves behind three kids, a wife, family, and friends. And he reminded me that every single loss hits close to home somewhere.
So tonight, please raise a glass, say a prayer, or pause a moment, for a nice kid from a nice town in Connecticut, who died in service to his country.
The farm where I first took horseback riding lessons is now the site of the town hall. The field we used to walk through in my neighborhood to get to the local fishing and swimming pond now is filled with a new housing development.
When I grew up there, Brookfield was a lot smaller - or seemed it. It was a place where you pretty much knew everyone in your grade in school; where people still left their doors unlocked at night, and no one locked their cars in their driveways. Brookfield is the place where I learned to ride a bike - where I got my first kiss - where I learned to drive a car - where I got my first job.
It was a nice place to grow up. It's still a pretty nice town, even if it now takes you almost a half an hour to make the trip to that movie theater, thanks to a wealth of new strip malls and stop lights.
Jason Dale Lewis grew up there.
Brookfield is still listed as his hometown:
IMMEDIATE RELEASE
No. 840-07July 07, 2007
DoD Identifies Navy Casualties
The Department of Defense announced today the death of three sailors who were
supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom. They died July 6 as a result of enemy action
while conducting combat operations in the vicinity of Baghdad, Iraq. The three
sailors were assigned to an East Coast-based SEAL team.
Killed were:
Petty Officer First Class Jason Dale Lewis, 30, of Brookfield, Conn.,
Petty Officer First Class Robert Richard McRill, 42, of Lake Placid, Fla.,
Petty Officer First Class Steven Phillip Daugherty, 28, of Barstow, Calif.
For further information related to this release, contact Naval Special Warfare Group Two Public Affairs at 757-462-2282.
I didn't know him. But I know his hometown well. I know the places where he and his friends probably hung out after school and on the weekends. I know the halls of the schools where he once walked. I know the roads he probably drove down too fast because of the great curves and "whoop-dee-doos" you got if you went just the right speed.
I know the pond he probably went skating on as a kid.
I asked my sister if she knew him. He was her age. She did.
"I wasn't friends with him but you know how in Brookfield you pretty much know everyone - he was a nice kid. I feel bad for his wife and kids, I was surprised to read that he had 3, they must be young."
This one hits close to home. Each day as I see the names, it affects me. But somehow this one is particularly strong. I remember my mother talking about when someone she went to school with was lost in Vietnam. Even if you're not close to them, seeing a familiar town on a casualty list reminds you that the people fighting this war are not just Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, or Sailors. They're sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, friends. They are ours. They are your paperboy, the kid who used to sell lemonade down the street, the little girl who fell off her bike in front of your house. They are your UPS guy, your brother's old girlfriend...or a 'nice kid,' who went to school with your sister.
One of the dangers as a war goes on is that it becomes less real, less personal. No matter what your belief about why we went, a few years into it, less and less people watch the news. Less and less people look up at the TV in the local watering hole when pictures of Soldiers flash across the screen.
Remember the first few names? The way that every single loss seemed incredibly important? And now, you hear the news reports, and it's just "in Iraq today, 4 US Soldiers were killed, bringing the total to..." The four get lost in the total. Just numbers.
But Jason wasn't a number. None of them are. Heroes to me, they're even more than that to those they leave behind. Hell, to them, they'd be heroes if they never went to war. They're Mom, or Dad, or a best friend...or a nice kid from Brookfield, CT.
Jason Dale Lewis died in Iraq on July 6. He leaves behind three kids, a wife, family, and friends. And he reminded me that every single loss hits close to home somewhere.
So tonight, please raise a glass, say a prayer, or pause a moment, for a nice kid from a nice town in Connecticut, who died in service to his country.
UPDATE: I am collecting condolence cards for Jason's family. If you would like to send one, please email me at fallensoldierbike-AT-sbcglobal.net for the address to get them to me.
Labels: remembering the fallen
posted by Pam at 21:37
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home