Dear Sir, I wrote, then crossed out. I gnawed on my pencil, not knowing how to begin to write what I was feeling.
Dear Mr. Veteran, I tried again. No, that wasn't correct either. I could call him by his name, but that seemed too informal.
If only the letter was as easy to write as the feelings were to feel! I let my mind wander back in time a year and a half, to my freshman year of high school....
* * *
November 11, 2006. Veteran's Day. All day long, men came in and out of classrooms, explaining the wars they had served in, but not any horrors of the war. I had sat through history class, thinking, “These men are so ordinary. Why are they here?” Of course, I knew what veterans were, and that we were to honor them, but that was the extent of my knowledge. I'd never had any personal contact with veterans before.
That all changed that afternoon. As a choir member, I sat up on the stage, ready to sing our beloved national anthem. It was then that I saw him come on stage.
He rolled on in a power scooter, an oxygen tank at his side. He was a hefty man, and, quite frankly, I was a bit afraid of him. What's wrong with him? I wondered to myself, trying not to stare.
As the ceremonies proceeded, Mr. Reimensnyder announced the names of the present veterans, beginning with Mr. Ralph Ammon. My gaze was drawn back to the sickly man, and I felt my heart break for him as his story was told.
Mr. Ammon survived a German Prisoner of War camp. He ate dirt, worms, and suffered through unimaginable things. He is ill now because he vowed that he would never go hungry again.
I nearly cried that day.
* * *
I did cry the next year. I had been promoted to Soprano I in choir, and, therefore, was the closest person to Mr. Ammon. I was the one who helped him situate his scooter, who answered his questions about Mifflinburg's incredible field hockey team.
And I was the one who saw him rise as we sang the national anthem. He couldn't walk, but he stood proudly as we sang The Star-Spangled Banner.
I was the one who saw the tears slip down his rough, withered cheeks as the band played his service song, and I was the one who watched him rise to salute.
The assembly continued, but I could not think of anything other than the veteran. I felt a tear or two roll down my own cheeks, and swiftly wiped them. I could not even begin to imagine what Mr. Ammon had been through. I wanted more than anything to sit and talk with him for hours, but I knew I couldn't. So I went home, with only a simple, “Good-bye, Sir,” to the man who had so fiercely touched my soul.
I've tried for months to think of a way to thank him, but every idea seems so overdone. Now, today, I've given up thinking of pathetic, glorious ways to tell him – a total stranger – what he has meant to me. He showed me why we love our veterans, why we are so proud of them. The best thing I could think of was merely this:
Dear Sir,
Thank you.
-Jade Arwen Enders
4/28/08
