THEY SAID IT, I LEARNED FROM IT
Perspectives change with time and distance
When we are open to modifying our points of view, our lives often take a positive about-face as well. What attitudes have you altered with a new frame of reference?
Aunt Eva was my grandmother’s sister. Her demeanor was much like her home: simple yet charming; tidy but welcoming; unpretentious yet refined. We made regular stops at her place on trips to visit Gramps and Granny in Grassy Creek, North Carolina. Her perfect posture and humble graciousness seemed both regal and elegant, though she would never have thought herself to be either.
Pulling up to Aunt Eva’s home meant an incredibly warm welcome and a dead-certain invitation to “come in and sit so we can visit for a while.” She was the oldest living child of my great-grandparents, and as such, the guardian of some of the most gracious hospitality a family can instill. The deeply affectionate invitations to enter her home were not exactly what my older brother Mark and I wanted to hear; nonetheless, we were experienced in resigning ourselves to sitting and visiting for a while.
The room off to the left of her living room was where we would ultimately settle. There, we would find Uncle Bradford (Leo Bradford Young, to be exact). I first remembered seeing him at one of our annual “homecoming” reunions and, based on appearances, decided to keep my distance. Young boys understand neither the wounds nor the ravages of war, and I certainly didn’t want to acquaint myself with them up close at the reunion. After all, there were ham biscuits and homemade cobblers of every kind to be sampled.
“I reckon you better take your chair and sit directly next to the bed, son,” encouraged Aunt Eva not long after we entered the room. Was she talking to me? Her eye contact made it definitive. Uncle Bradford wanted to talk. I was uneasy. From across the room and just as I had previously seen at the reunion, the abundant scars on his neck, around his eyes, and on his hands seemed foreboding. How could I possibly survive an up-close visit?
Better yet, how had he survived? We were a long way and a long time from the Argonne Forest during World War I. Uncle Bradford was there then. He grew up knowing horses and how to handle them, and became a wagoner in the 17th Field Artillery Regiment of the US Army. His job was to work with the animals he loved to move large loads of munitions and re-position artillery. He happened to be doing his job as part of the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, the final Allied push toward victory in World War I.
Getting hit with mustard gas must have been horrific. I’ve since wondered if he saw the yellow-brown cloud or was warned by the scent. Was his gas mask misted up from the morning fog of the region? Did he dare rip it off and risk increased exposure? Or, did he leave it on and hazard stumbling into a German machine gun nest? Uncle Bradford, and some 19,000 other Americans, were gassed during the Offensive. He and the others would have experienced severe blistering - internally and externally - within hours of exposure. These noxious ulcers seared airways, damaged vocal cords, impacted hearing, and caused eyes to swell shut. Woolen uniforms soaked up the gas, making matters infinitely worse. For survivors, the after-effects were chronic. And what of the horses under Uncle Bradford’s care?
The chair was situated directly next to the bed—someone else placed it there. I was in a momentary blur. My great uncle, the wounded World War I combat veteran, was now lying within inches of me. His scarred left hand moved and rested on my shoulder. My ear turned toward his mouth as his damaged voice—limited to a raspy and gravelly murmur—served as a weak medium to convey his message. No one had left the room, but it felt as if Uncle Bradford and I were all alone. Up close, trying to listen intently, I couldn’t really see him or hear much of what he said. Instead, I reckon I could feel him: the goodness behind the damaged gray eyes, the warmth behind the cold scars, the compassion in the wounded voice, and the gentleness in the weakened left hand.
We visited Aunt Eva and Uncle Bradford again and again after that day; however, the perspective of what I saw at the reunion was never the same. Up close, my perception of the gassed and scarred soldier who married my Granny’s sister brought new context.
For the first time in my recollection, there was significance beyond the visual and the audible.
I saw him one last time in 1974. I—the once towheaded, sun-burned, and hand-me-down clothes-wearing boy of the mid to late 1960’s — was now a know-it-all freshman in high school. Uncle Bradford, for his part, had somehow made it to age 79. Being kept comfortable at home was no longer possible. He was routinely transported to the VA Hospital in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Death would come shortly.
The room was grim and austere. Upon entering, even I could discern that he was too weak to speak or put his hand on my shoulder. Uncle Bradford, a casualty of The Chemists’ War, was all alone. Aunt Eva wasn’t there to prompt me. In fact, I didn’t need it. On my own, I reckoned I’d better move a chair and sit directly next to his bed.
Perspectives change when you’re up close. Perhaps that’s why judges—of all kinds, mind you—tend to keep their distance.
Written by Craig Halsey
*They said it, I learned from it is a compilation of lessons learned from the things we’ve heard people say over the course of many lifetimes. It’s amazing what you can learn when you listen. Watch for They Said it, I learned from it every Friday in The Weekly Hodl. It’s perfect reading while you enjoy your second breakfast.
