By the Toledo Tribune
I got a call the other day from a reader, I like talking to my readers,—an older gentleman, a Vietnam veteran. In fact three tours as Marine Force Recon. He mentioned it casually, the way a man might say he used to work construction or coached Little League. But I know it was anything but casual.
Three tours in Vietnam—especially as a Marine Force Recon operator—is beyond significant. That’s a level of endurance, skill, and sacrifice that most people can’t begin to imagine. Many young Marines barely made it through one tour in the jungles of Vietnam, where the enemy was elusive, the terrain unforgiving, and the war itself a political and psychological minefield. Three tours? That means he kept going back, mission after mission, year after year, when so many didn’t come home at all.
Marine Force Recon was—and still is—one of the most elite units in the United States military. In Vietnam, they operated deep behind enemy lines, gathering intelligence, conducting raids, and executing missions that required stealth, precision, and nerves of steel. Unlike conventional infantry, Force Recon Marines often worked in small teams, moving through dense jungle and enemy-held territory where the wrong step could mean instant death. No front lines, no safety net. Just the thick heat of the jungle, the ever-present hum of insects, and the knowledge that at any moment, an unseen enemy might be watching. They were ghosts—tracking movement, calling in air strikes, slipping away before the enemy knew they were there. And sometimes, they weren’t lucky enough to slip away.
To do one tour in Force Recon was impressive. To do three was nearly unheard of. That means this man wasn’t just another Marine—he was one of the best. He survived in an environment that chewed up even the toughest men. And the fact that he mentioned it casually says a lot. Because for men like him, it wasn’t about bragging. It was just what he did.
Most people today don’t realize what that kind of service means. They might picture a war movie or a documentary, but the reality was much harsher. The men who lived it don’t tend to talk about it much. And when they do, it’s usually in an offhand way—because for them, it wasn’t about medals or recognition. It was about the men they served with, the ones who didn’t come home, and the memories that never really leave.
And yet, when he mentioned it, it was just another fact. Not something to dwell on, not something to impress. Just what he did. He mentioned it in the same breath about him growing up on a cattle ranch in Eastern Oregon. Working the land, learning hard work and self-assurance. He spoke with the same pride about training with one of the premier dog show trainers in the country, too. That’s a life, right there—a man who had lived more stories than most of us could imagine. And yet, he might be your neighbor.
Do you know your neighbor?
You might. You might nod at them in the driveway, wave when they check the mail. Maybe you even know their first name—Bill, or maybe Bob? Bob seems right. But do you know their last name? Their kids’ names? Their favorite dessert? Do they like pie? (Who doesn’t like pie?) When was the last time they sat at your dinner table? Or you at theirs?
When we moved into our house in Toledo fourteen years ago—has it been fourteen years? My goodness. Anyway, when we moved in, a neighbor showed up at our door with a loaf of banana bread, fresh from the oven. I can still see it, wrapped in a paper towel, steam rising off the top like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. I remember the warmth, the smell, and I remember the neighbor’s smile. He worked for the county, same as me. Not a direct next-door neighbor, but close enough to still be neighborly.
I always liked him. We talked for a bit, and I remember saying something about having him over for a barbecue. But he didn’t come in, and I don’t think I invited him. I should have. Maybe the house was a mess—we had just finished remodeling. Maybe I thought we’d do it another time. But time, as it turns out, is a slippery thing. You put something off until later, and later quietly packs up and leaves town. I never saw him again.
Then there was the boy across the street—polite, respectful. One of those kids who still said “sir” and held the door open for people, like a decent human being. He came over once while I was cleaning the garage, and we talked for a while. Nice kid. When it was time for dinner, I told him I was wrapping up. “Come back anytime,” I said. But he never did.
I watched him grow up from a distance. Saw his friends come and go, saw him get his first car, saw him wrestle an old pair of hedge clippers one afternoon, trying to trim his yard. So I brought over my battery-powered trimmer, and he took it with the quiet gratitude of a young man who has suddenly been given the keys to the kingdom. He brought it back an hour later, thanked me, and that was that. Now he’s off at college.
I was a patrol deputy here in Lincoln County for years. And if you didn’t know, every unattended death—meaning no doctor or hospice present—has to be investigated. It’s one of those things most people don’t think about until they have to, and by then, it’s a little late.
I can’t count how many times I stood in a stranger’s living room or bedroom, looking down at someone’s neighbor, and wondered, Who were you?
The process was always the same. Take pictures. Gather medications for the medical examiner. Identify the deceased. Get an idea as to why they were no longer with us. Sometimes family was there, grieving. But sometimes, it was a neighbor who called it in—someone who noticed the mail piling up, the porch light still on in the middle of the day. Sometimes there were flies in the window. That was never a good sign.
I remember an old sergeant telling a story about a welfare check. He knocked, he banged, he peered through the window and saw an older woman lying still on the couch. There were flies in the window. So he forced the door open, stepped inside, and just as he began the investigation—she snorted and sat up. He screamed. She screamed. He screamed again. Turns out, she had just been in a very deep sleep.
Then there was the old man who died in bed, peaceful as could be. I found his wallet, checked his driver’s license. Tucked behind it was a newspaper clipping—yellowed, creased. It was about him, from another time. Said he had shot down five enemy planes in World War II, making him an ace. I looked at him lying there, an old man in a small house, and I thought about the young man he had been—the one who soared over Europe in a Mustang.
I mentioned it to his neighbors as I searched for a next of kin. None of them knew. One had the name of a daughter, but no one knew the man he had been.
We’re all busy, I know. Hospitality is an art, and it’s one we’ve let fade. These days, it’s easier to keep to ourselves. It’s easier to let the days slip by, to wave from a distance and leave it at that. And we tell ourselves it’s fine, that it’s just the way life is now.
But I invite you to join me on an adventure. An adventure into neighborhoods. A reintroduction to the fine art of saying howdy.
Because someday, when the lights in your house go dark and the world moves on, it won’t be the emails answered or the hours worked that matter. It’ll be the neighbors who remember your name.
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