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coordinated attacks – even in the capital of Saigon where we supposedly had everything under control. After this, the public’s attitude soured bitterly over Vietnam. It looked like a quagmire with no end in sight. People were just tired of it and became unsure of why we were even fighting. The summer of 1968 was horrible. The war protests, the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., the race riots, the assassination of Robert Kennedy – the whole country was angry, upset, and unsettled. This really troubled your dad as it did all of us. He graduated from high school in June that year, and he resolved to join the army. He thought the war protesters were unpatriotic, and he felt the ultimate way of showing his support for his country was to join the armed forces – like your grandfather.”
    “I know my grandfather fought in WWII, but other than that I don’t really know anything about him.”
    “I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” said Reverend Fox. “However, I do think your dad felt compelled to follow in his father’s footsteps. Your mother tried to talk him out of it; she was very distraught about his decision. She came to me and asked if I would step in and try to get him to change his mind. But there was nothing I could have said. So he left for basic training at Fort Polk, Louisiana around September of 1968. Nothing would ever be the same after that date.”
    Reverend Fox looked tired. He stared off into space for a moment, and then reconnected with me.
    “Martin, can I get you a cup of coffee?”
    “No, thank you,” I replied, just wanting to get back to the story.
    Reverend Fox walked over to the coffee maker in the corner, poured himself a cup, then continued to divulge the past I never knew.
    “Over the next several months, your mom kept abreast of your dad’s whereabouts and doings as much as possible. When he shipped to Vietnam in early January of ’69, your mom came to see me. She told me all about the last conversation she had with him, and then she broke down crying. I tried my best to comfort her. Over the first six months of 1969, your mom and I became good friends. I acted as her confidant about her feelings over your dad and everything she felt concerning his deployment. And for me, your mom was a great help at church. She devoted herself to the youth group, coming every Friday night, playing games with the kids and teaching Bible stories. I greatly admired her, and frankly, I grew fond of her. She was an attractive young woman – simply pretty and very pleasant to talk with.”
    What tall-tales he seemed to be creating! If he hadn’t been a man of the cloth, I might have called him a liar. His words added depth and clarity to my being. I no longer felt like a one dimensional person continually on the receiving end of taunts and jabs and abuse. In a wonderfully strange way, I somehow knew that the web my parents had weaved over me was not real because the parents I knew were not real. They were merely just some beaten down version of who they used to be. I began to realize that Reverend Fox’s story would not hurt me, no matter which direction it sprinted. I had, perhaps, already tasted the worst of my life.
    “By the time the summer of 1969 rolled around, your mom stopped hearing from your dad. It was very upsetting for her, and we talked frequently about him. I told her not to give up on him, that war was sure to take a toll on him, and that we needed to keep praying for him. Your grandmother Maggie would pray for Martin every Wednesday evening at prayer meeting. She was such a faithful saint. She, too, took a good liking to your mom, and your mom and I would often spend Friday nights at Maggie’s house eating dinner, talking, and wishing Martin safety.”
    The Reverend seemed taken in by himself. He gazed off for a moment.
    “It was, I believe, mid-June. Your mom and I were in charge of a mini-youth retreat at one of the campsites up north near Tionesta along the Allegheny