Written Memoirs

Narrative Vault Excerpt // Harold

During Covid 19 isolation and social distancing, I reflected deeply on my life and the transformations I have undergone. These reflections have made me realize how my journey resembles the life cycle of a butterfly.

My life began with a troubled childhood, followed by the horrors of Vietnam, struggles with alcohol, and the destructive way I treated others and myself. This phase of my life can be compared to the ugly caterpillar—an insatiable, fuzzy blackish-green insect consuming plants and leaves in its path. This destructive creature, one that people instinctively avoid and often crush, mirrors how I was destroying everything meaningful to me, including my own sense of worth. I felt undeserving of life.

I joined the U.S. Army the day I turned 17. Eight months later I landed in Da Nang, headed for Camp Evans in central Vietnam. Three days into my time in Vietnam, my section was told to find a tent and await further instructions. Soon after I put my things down, I learned that seven of us would be driving in a convoy to our next location. Only two of us were qualified to drive above a 10-ton truck, so Turtle (nickname) and I were assigned JP-4 fuel tankers. Turtle jumped into the first tanker, and I followed in the second one. The rest were given smaller trucks to drive. We headed down Highway 1 through the Ashau Valley, with no co-drivers. Connected only by radio, we maintained radio silence unless absolutely necessary.

About six hours into our convoy, we were ambushed from the left side by 122 rocket-propelled grenades. Turtle’s truck took a direct hit and burst into flames. As he came to a stop, I pulled up beside him and got out to help. He was engulfed in flames. I found a poncho liner to wrap around my arms for protection, reached in, and pulled him out of the cab. I lay him on the ground and managed to extinguish the flames, but he was so badly burned. He opened his eyes, and I told him he’d be okay. He passed away in my arms.

My first loss of the war. The next day was Christmas 1967. After two tours, the horrors of Vietnam came home with me in 1970. After 23 years of Army service, I retired at the request of my command, a 3-star Desert Storm general. I had begun to experience debilitating flashbacks and severe anxiety from my Vietnam days.

Just like the caterpillar, I created a chrysalis—a hard protective shell—to guard against myself from both my inner struggles and the dangers of the outside world. Gradually, the chrysalis became a sanctuary for me, a safe place where I could undergo transformation, experiencing profound physical and mental changes, similar to the remarkable process a caterpillar undergoes within its chrysalis. A number of gut-wrenching processes occur to the caterpillar as it transforms into a beautiful butterfly.

Like the caterpillar, my gut-wrenching transformation began at the Seattle VA Medical Center in 1992 where I spent two years treating my PTSD. Upon my discharge, I continued my PTSD treatment for another intense year in California. In 2010, I was admitted again for suicidal ideation.

I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Tired of living with the pain from my past, I tried to hide from everyone curling up in a corner behind the bed. Two male nurses told me I would be going to the dining room to “tie flies.”

“No way,” I thought to myself. But the nurses insisted. “No, Harold, you will join the group.” They were with the Healing Waters Program, which teaches disabled veterans to tie flies and then takes them out on the water to fish. Under pressure from the staff, I complied.

After some time, just as the caterpillar breaks free from its chrysalis, I began to crack open my hard shell. I emerged a transformed human being in a new world—a beautiful, gentle soul with changed values and a renewed outlook on life. As I stretched my wings, I tested these newfound changes. At first, I struggled and felt awkward, but with time, I grew accustomed to my new self. A new life had begun.

Two meaningful events helped me make this beautiful transformation: a trip to Washington, D.C., to see the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 2018, and a trip to Vietnam to leave a memorial to my fallen brothers, including Turtle, and to give back to the Vietnamese people.

I never considered myself a hero. I served my country the best I could. I didn’t receive a gauntlet of well-wishers welcoming me home from Vietnam in 1970. Instead, I was called a baby killer and a monster. I finally received honor, gratitude, and a community of support when I landed in Washington, D.C., as a member of the Inland Northwest Honor Flight in 2018. Honor Flight Network is a national organization that transports American Veterans to the US Capitol, visiting the memorials dedicated to honor service and sacrifices.

At first, I experienced the same strange feeling I had when I left for Vietnam in December 1967—scared of the unknown. How would I react? Would I make a fool of myself? Could I lead other soldiers? Would I even be able to get close to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Wall? My emotions were uncontrollable. Overwhelmed, I was led by my counselor to the very panel of the Wall I wanted to see. I found Turtle’s name, the first soldier from my section to die three days after arriving in Vietnam. I shed tears for him and the other fallen soldiers.

Two years later, in 2019, I boarded a flight to Ho Chi Minh City, the most populous city of Vietnam. Before this, I had attended a “Warriors Heart to Art” retreat in Spokane for soldiers suffering from PTSD. At first, I tried to hide again, sitting in my locked car, wanting to leave. But eventually, I joined the group. There, I found a family of veterans, ranging from 20-70 years old, each experiencing every kind of pain one can imagine. For the first time, I felt like maybe I belonged.

One sleepless night at the retreat found me in the lunch room, reading and drinking coffee. I expected to be alone, but to my surprise, another Vietnam veteran was there. We talked about his experience going back to Vietnam and how it was the best thing he had done—he had even returned four times with other veterans. When he suggested I should go back, my initial thought was, “No way.” But something he said sparked a change in me, and I found myself agreeing to go.

He told me I might lose my ghosts, find peace, and say a final goodbye to Turtle and my fallen soldiers.

As the pilot began his gradual descent into Ho Chi Minh City, my mind flashed back to my arrival as a young soldier on December 21, 1967. It felt like we dropped from 20,000 feet to landing on the tarmac in a single minute to avoid getting shot down by enemy fire. But this plane was taking 20 minutes to land, and I could only think, “Why is this taking so long? We could be hit.” My companion touched my arm, bringing me back to 2019.

The first day a guide accompanied my group to several temples, a Pho soup shop, and the War Remnants Museum, where I stood next to my gun, an M114 155 mm howitzer, the pig! The next day our group traveled from Ho Chi Minh City by boat into the Mekong Delta, once a war-torn region during the Vietnam War with its landscape ravaged by conflict and defoliants.

Later we visited a small village, starting with a woman who had received a prosthetic leg from an American veteran. Each year, American doctors donate their time to this village. We met at the church grounds to hand out food while the doctors checked the health of around 2,000 Vietnamese citizens. As we left the village, we visited a family’s new brick house, built with money donated by an American veteran. On another day we visited an orphanage supported by American veterans and delivered medical supplies to an “old people’s home.”

Nearing the end of our trip we stopped at Sơn Trà Mountain—named Monkey Mountain by Americans—at a Quan Yin Pagoda to honor the fallen brothers I deployed with to Vietnam. I printed their names and dates of death on white ribbons, read their names aloud, and tied the ribbons to a Banyan tree. As I shed tears, I felt a lighter heart when the ceremony was complete. It was as if my brothers had been set free while remaining forever in my heart.

Finally, we visited the remains of Camp Evans, where I lost my buddy Turtle three days in country. I had come back to find peace and lose my ghosts. I could say a final goodbye. Today there are few remains of Camp Evans, an empty field, some large concrete slabs, hard flat earth. No buildings. No choppers. No sandbags. No bustle of war. Just a calm quiet.

I understand why I went back to Vietnam: to find the 17-year-old boy I left there, to say good-bye, and return to the present day—my home, my family, my grandchildren, my life. Through this journey into my past, I was able to emerge from the chrysalis as a beautiful butterfly and give back to the people of Vietnam.

I can see and experience the intricate patterns of life. I have a newfound freedom, fluttering tentatively but with growing confidence. My transformation from a caterpillar to a hidden, protective chrysalis to a vibrant human being marks a breathtaking moment of liberation and beauty.

Narrative Vault Excerpt // Nan

I am the mother of two sons, and over the years, I have been able to sum up the various girlfriends that have passed through theirs lives with one adjective: sweet, bohemian, badass. When I tried this exercise for my mom, I couldn’t do it. There were just too many adjectives to describe her. However, one word did keep coming back, over and over again.

And that word was grace. Because my mom lived her life with incredible grace.

As a son or daughter, we get to meet our parents when they are middle-age. They have already lived half their lives, and bottom line—we’re meeting them in the second half.

So when I think about my mother’s life, I think . . .

I would have liked to know the spunky Aylo—who in her youth was always the first girl picked when there were no longer any boys left for the school sports teams.

I would have liked to know the vivacious Aylo—who caught the eye of the handsome Army lieutenant on that first blind date.

I would have liked to know the determined Aylo—who when that same lieutenant asked her to marry him, she said, “Yes, on one condition.” She was going to finish college. He could wait a year to get married and her father would pay for that last year, or they could get married now, but he would have to pay for her last college year. The lieutenant paid the bill.

I would have liked to know the courageous Aylo—who moved to a foreign country with a new baby in tow, whose language she did not speak, while her Army lieutenant was in the Mexican Outback fighting hoof and mouth disease for weeks at a time. Cell phones and Skype only existed in science-fiction novels.

I would have liked to know the supportive Aylo—who now with three young children in tow moved to a few hit-and-miss locations before finally landing in Brookston, where she and my dad established a very successful veterinary practice. And just in case there is any doubt, he couldn’t have done it without her.

I would have liked to know the tenacious Aylo—who actually received sympathy cards when I was born. Oh my god, another girl. Number five.

And speaking of girls, I would have liked to know what Aylo was like as a sister. Because even though my childhood was dominated by sisters, it never occurred to me that my mom was a sister until I was about 35-years-old.

But for that second half of her life, I did know my mom, and I don’t have to wonder.

One of my earliest and most lasting images of my mother is seeing her late at night, sitting at her desk in the office off the kitchen, posting the daily veterinary appointments, statements, and calls into client files.

This would have been after a long day of answering phones, scheduling appointments, and assisting surgeries intermingled with taking care of the home, fixing meals, and getting her children off to school on time in clean clothes with personalized homemade party favors for the entire class.

The Aylo I knew possessed a joy for music—singing in the church choir or playing her baby grand piano, one of her prized possessions.

The Aylo I knew held her head high through a divorce when divorce was still a dirty word.

The Aylo I knew accepted the premature empty nest that came when my brother and I were sent to boarding schools.

The Aylo I knew endured the early death of one of her daughters and the estrangement of another.

The Aylo I knew reinvented herself long before baby boomers made it a buzzword. She created a second career filling many positions for a successful company in Lafayette. She wore many hats, but she was proudest of the wizard bookkeeping that accounted for every last penny without the aid of a computer.

The Aylo I knew welcomed each grandchild and never tired of hearing stories about them, both good and bad.

The Aylo I knew lived with conviction. She said, “I’m going back to work and I will drive again,” after she broke her leg at 78. And she did both. She received her one and only speeding ticket in her entire life at the age of 86.

The Aylo I knew demanded to meet with her attorney when the family decision was made that it was time to permanently live in an assisted living facility. She wasn’t going without a fight.

The Aylo I knew displayed compassion for others living at the facility. She would spend time holding the hand of an even older woman to calm her in the evenings at the facility.

With her mind still intact toward the end, the Aylo I knew accepted that her body was slowly failing and diminishing her ability to be the smart, self-reliant, independent woman she had always been.

And she did it all with grace. Let this be her legacy.

Narrative Vault Excerpt // Kris

Sophie. Such an amazing friend. Actually a best friend. Sophie is a Goldendoodle.

Sophie is now seven-years-old; my husband is 76 and I am 74. At age 69 and 67, we thought maybe we were crazy to take on an eight-week-old puppy. Thank goodness better sense did not prevail on this occasion.

We went to visit the breeder to pick out our puppy when the litter was four-weeks-old. There were actually two litters the same age. I have never seen so many puppies at one time in my life! How could we possibly decide which one we would want to take home four weeks later. 

We decided we would pick a small one so maybe we wouldn’t end up with a giant dog. The dad was a standard poodle and the mom was a Goldendoodle. Well, we picked one of the smallest puppies—and lo and behold—there is no such thing as a small standard Goldendoodle. A year later Sophie weighed in at 58 pounds. But she was 58 pounds of fluffy personality! She could have weighed in at 100 pounds, and we still would have been happy.

Crate training. We were full on into this idea of crate training, and we stuck with it. Of course, she had a cozy bed in the crate and a stuffed battery-operated dog that sounded like a heartbeat. Anything to make her happy in her new home.

We would take turns getting up in the middle of the night to take her out to go potty. This training took place at our summer home in Lake Tahoe, California. I was always on the lookout for bears on those early morning trips in the forest! I think the whole time we were crate training her, she had one accident in the house.

At about age four, we discovered that she had Addison’s disease. She had to spend some nights at the vet, and we visited her while she was in lockup. She is in good health now with a daily steroid pill and a once a month shot—to the tune of about $130 a month. Is she worth it? Indeed she is! Apparently Addison’s disease isn’t that uncommon in standard poodles. Woulda, shoulda, coulda gotten doggy health insurance but after the diagnosis, it was too late.

The week after we picked her up, she had already learned to sit and soon after how to speak. In hindsight teaching a dog to speak isn’t really the best idea. Although she isn’t really a barker, when you ask her to sit she automatically speaks. My Danish grandmother taught her dog Rover to speak by pinching him and then he would yelp. We did not resort to such tactics. Rover lived on my grandparents’ farm and rode in a horse-drawn wagon during harvest time. My mom said he didn’t seem to suffer from Mor Mors’ training technique.

One of the books that I have so enjoyed reading is “The Watchers” by Dean Koontz. He so often mentions a Golden Retriever in his books, and this one is all about a dog who learns how to communicate in a variety of ways. It just reminds me so much of Sophie—she also communicates in so many ways. If only she could talk.

One of Sophie’s favorite people is our daughter Emily. She spends a lot of time at Emily’s home. We moved into a condo recently, and it isn’t always easy to have a large dog in a relatively small condo. When we are at the lake for four to five months in the summer, she is always with us. After all, who would warn us of an impending chipmunk attack or a bear roaming around in the middle of the night? All we have to do is ask Sophie where Emily is and she cocks her head and starts looking around. Sophie misses her so much in the summer. Em comes up to visit a few times while we are away. When Em leaves, we have to deal with a mopey, sad dog for a few days.

Last week Sophie wasn’t feeling well and after three days of throwing up, we took her into the vet. She was still eating and drinking, and we just figured Sophie would get it out of her system and be on the road to recovery. Of course, we are the parents who told our 14-year-old son that he was fine when he complained that his wrist hurt after basketball practice. Just “ice it,” we said. A few days later we took him to the doctor and it was broken. So after IVs, pills, her monthly shot a little early, she is fine. After $600 in vet bills and $300 later in carpet cleaning, we are fine. All is good. Except for our savings account. God love her! And we do!

Sophie is lying at my feet right now and dreaming of chasing a squirrel or something through the forest—her legs are in motion.

Today while we were sitting outside having our morning coffee and laughing at Sophie and her antics, I said to my husband that she is cheap entertainment. While he didn’t agree that she was exactly cheap entertainment, he did agree that she is a love and we can’t imagine life without her. Sophie. The best dog ever.