Two middle-aged men crossed my path last week, both of them talking about war.
The first was Vice President Dick Cheney, who came to Burlington last Thursday to give a pep talk to Air National Guard pilots and ground crews. Once that short chore was finished and Mr. Cheney could technically charge his massive travel expenses to the taxpayers, he turned his gaze to the real business: raising money for the Vermont Republican Party.
Out front, a peaceable crowd of 300 Vermonters for the most ad hoc of coalitions with several agendas. Get the money out of politics, get the oil out of foreign policy and keep our troops out of the Persian Gulf. We never got to see Mr. Cheney, who was snugged away behind several cordons of police, secret service and tractor trailers brought in to obscure the view.
I remember standing on a street corner in Washington, DC in the late 1980s when a motorcade pulled to the curb, Mikhail Gorbachev stepped from his limousine and began shaking hands with passers-by. Fourteen years later, our own vice president cannot be glimpsed from the street, much less walk upon it.
The other middle-aged man I heard from last week was an old friend who called from out of the blue. We spent a few moments catching up, then discussed the news of the day. The conversation faltered and lapsed into silence. Finally, he spoke. “I’m worried about my boy,” he said. My tongue-tied friend at the other end of the line has a 19-year-old son and his country is drifting to war.
Dick Cheney gads about, selling war as if it were a box of soap, new and improved, satisfaction guaranteed, if only you’ll vote Republican. The news is filled with war speculation. Politicians from both parties hone their rhetoric; toning it up or down, as the polls and constituent mail direct them. War talk courses through bars and lunch counters, displacing the baseball playoffs and college football. As strong as our feelings may be, one way or another, there’s a certain detachment. For parents of a boy on his late teens – to say nothing of the boy himself – there is no detachment. For them, the possibility of a war – perhaps a draft – is a nightmare, or would be a nightmare if they could sleep. Instead, they lie awake and stare at the ceiling and pray it goes away. “Not my boy. Not now. He’s got so much life ahead of him.”
A few nights like that and parents will dig out the address book. Where’s that phone number for Floegel? He’s a leftist, a peacenik; there must be something he can do. “You’re up there near Canada,” one friend said on the phone. “I figure you can sneak my boy across the border.” He laughed, a nervous laugh. Now that it was light of day, now that he was on the phone, now that he’d actually said it, he started to feel foolish and self-conscious, but the worry was still there, I could hear it just beneath the bravado. “Sure,” I said. “If things get bad, you send your boy to me and I’ll look after him.”
In truth, I don’t have a secret plan for aiding and abetting draft dodgers. My friend was looking for reassurance and that’s what I offered. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said and hurried off the phone. I cradled the receiver. If it does come to “that,” I can expect another, more serious phone call from my friend. I gave him what amounts to a promissory note. If it does come to “that” – “that” being war and a draft – I’m sure he’ll call again looking to cash that note.
Saddam Hussein is a bad man, we’d be better off without him, but let us not decide our actions with the blare of brass bands in our ears. If we can shut Saddam down and pin him in without resorting to war, we should. If there are interim steps we can take, short of war – like inspections and sanctions – we should take them.
If it comes to war, it will not be fought by middle-aged men. If it comes to war, middle-aged men – and women – may pay a very dear price nonetheless. When your politician comes home to campaign next month, ask how many gold star flags the Pentagon has set aside for your hometown.
Middle-Aged Men
Two middle-aged men crossed my path last week, both of them talking about war.
The first was Vice President Dick Cheney, who came to Burlington last Thursday to give a pep talk to Air National Guard pilots and ground crews. Once that short chore was finished and Mr. Cheney could technically charge his massive travel expenses to the taxpayers, he turned his gaze to the real business: raising money for the Vermont Republican Party.
Out front, a peaceable crowd of 300 Vermonters for the most ad hoc of coalitions with several agendas. Get the money out of politics, get the oil out of foreign policy and keep our troops out of the Persian Gulf. We never got to see Mr. Cheney, who was snugged away behind several cordons of police, secret service and tractor trailers brought in to obscure the view.
I remember standing on a street corner in Washington, DC in the late 1980s when a motorcade pulled to the curb, Mikhail Gorbachev stepped from his limousine and began shaking hands with passers-by. Fourteen years later, our own vice president cannot be glimpsed from the street, much less walk upon it.
The other middle-aged man I heard from last week was an old friend who called from out of the blue. We spent a few moments catching up, then discussed the news of the day. The conversation faltered and lapsed into silence. Finally, he spoke. “I’m worried about my boy,” he said. My tongue-tied friend at the other end of the line has a 19-year-old son and his country is drifting to war.
Dick Cheney gads about, selling war as if it were a box of soap, new and improved, satisfaction guaranteed, if only you’ll vote Republican. The news is filled with war speculation. Politicians from both parties hone their rhetoric; toning it up or down, as the polls and constituent mail direct them. War talk courses through bars and lunch counters, displacing the baseball playoffs and college football. As strong as our feelings may be, one way or another, there’s a certain detachment. For parents of a boy on his late teens – to say nothing of the boy himself – there is no detachment. For them, the possibility of a war – perhaps a draft – is a nightmare, or would be a nightmare if they could sleep. Instead, they lie awake and stare at the ceiling and pray it goes away. “Not my boy. Not now. He’s got so much life ahead of him.”
A few nights like that and parents will dig out the address book. Where’s that phone number for Floegel? He’s a leftist, a peacenik; there must be something he can do. “You’re up there near Canada,” one friend said on the phone. “I figure you can sneak my boy across the border.” He laughed, a nervous laugh. Now that it was light of day, now that he was on the phone, now that he’d actually said it, he started to feel foolish and self-conscious, but the worry was still there, I could hear it just beneath the bravado. “Sure,” I said. “If things get bad, you send your boy to me and I’ll look after him.”
In truth, I don’t have a secret plan for aiding and abetting draft dodgers. My friend was looking for reassurance and that’s what I offered. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said and hurried off the phone. I cradled the receiver. If it does come to “that,” I can expect another, more serious phone call from my friend. I gave him what amounts to a promissory note. If it does come to “that” – “that” being war and a draft – I’m sure he’ll call again looking to cash that note.
Saddam Hussein is a bad man, we’d be better off without him, but let us not decide our actions with the blare of brass bands in our ears. If we can shut Saddam down and pin him in without resorting to war, we should. If there are interim steps we can take, short of war – like inspections and sanctions – we should take them.
If it comes to war, it will not be fought by middle-aged men. If it comes to war, middle-aged men – and women – may pay a very dear price nonetheless. When your politician comes home to campaign next month, ask how many gold star flags the Pentagon has set aside for your hometown.