George Washington Slept Here

When I was a young man, I, like many members of my generation, had the attitude that when I departed this realm I should be disposed of in the most efficient manner. There was no thought whatsoever that I should leave my name anywhere to mark that I had passed this way.

That attitude served me well for a few decades until, on a trip to Washington D. C., I journeyed over to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I walked along the path and viewed the bronze life size statue of three ordinary soldiers, one Caucasian, one African American and one Hispanic looking towards the wall. These men were not portrayed as larger-than-life heroic figures. They were portrayed as people I knew: friends, neighbors, relatives. Real human beings. I stood there transfixed for a moment then continued along the path to the wall. Upon first seeing the wall, I suppose my experience was the same as the hundreds of thousands who came before me. I was stunned at the simple majesty of seeing 58,272 names carved in the long black granite wall.

Something inside began to change. I just didn’t know it.

A short time later, the subject of death came up in a casual conversation and I reiterated my stance on my disposal. But before we moved on to other things, my conversation mate (and who that person was, I can not honestly remember) said, “That’s selfish.”

I was understandably taken aback. How could it possibly be selfish not to want to leave a footprint behind? Why take up space after you are gone? I actually thought of vanishing into nothingness as being unselfish. But an explanation was forthcoming: “People need to have a place to go to remember someone. They need to see a name. To touch a name. To connect with the past. To not provide that simple thing to future generations is selfish.”

I thought about seeing the Vietnam Veterans Wall and what I felt when I saw those names. I didn’t even know those people, yet I felt a powerful connection. That feeling is not unlike going somewhere that touts itself as a place where our first president, George Washington, spent the night. “George Washington Slept Here” reads the sign out front. Just knowing that the man who helped form out country spent a few hours asleep provides us with a connection to our history.

I now understand that everyone needs to be remembered in some permanent way. Everyone has a story to tell; a life that was lived.

Some time back I visited the graves of my mother’s parents and her grandparents (my great-grand parents). As I stood there I was struck by the fact that I owe my very existence to them. I also understood that if they had not left their names in a cemetery, there would not be have been a place for me to go and remember. My grandparents’ house still stands, but of course, other people live in it. It is also made of wood and nails and will not stand forever. My great-grandparents’ house, if it still stands, is somewhere in Russia.

But their graves still stand in two small cemeteries in Friend, Nebraska and there is no reason not to expect they will be there for future generations to connect with them.

Whether a mausoleum, a monument or a simple grave, those names carved in stone represent the gift of life.

Text and photo © Douglas Keister Visit Doug’s Author Page

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