Sunday, August 31, 2003
Beecher House.
One mile south of downtown, on heavily shaded 8th Street, I pass the house where I lived and park on the west side of the street to get a good look at the houses on the east side.
When I was small and not allowed to cross any streets, this was the block where I could walk, bike and even spring shoe (another story) using the sidewalk and the tree rows if I would be careful and look both ways before crossing the alley – Mom said.
I knew each of these houses and every resident even if they didn’t have any kids. Trees have grown since I last looked at this part of the block. The Beecher house, always brighter than others what with the white paint and a fewer shade trees, catches my eye.
I'd rather think of Quentin Beecher, who was 3 years behind me in school but lived on the same block of South 8th street when we were kids, driving one of those red sidewalk cars, that you pump with your hands and steer with your feet, around our block than think of him flying a doomed helicopter in southeast Asia.
He had a fine broad face and a ready smile. They must have moved someplace else when he was about 13 because I can't picture him any older than that.
I've known for a long time that we lost Quentin to that war and he's the one I think of whenever the topic comes up. He personifies our losses for me, not just him and the smiling kids like him but the men they would have become.
It's unclear to me what we won there but I have a good idea what we lost.
