The Mortal Dash of Destiny: Memorial Day Ceremonies, RVNC, 2012

On the headstones, it’s really the dash in between the birth date and the date of departure conveying the spirit, the presence and the life’s journey of those who gifted Earth with distinguished purpose.     --  Lynda  StarWriter

I’m not claiming the aforementioned quote because I think I’m all that; someone else has probably said something similar and with more eloquence. Thank heaven this isn’t  a research paper, though the more I wandered through the vast, natural beauty of the Riverside Veteran’s National Cemetery (RVNC), the more inquiry fluttered through my writer’s mind, like the polymorphic artistry of butterflies, lighting wherever they may and taking flight just as readily. Such is the bane of creative ideas.

The reasons for my visits there are twofold:  First, my camera and I appreciate the arboreal beauty with the changing of the seasons. The other reason is that stories of tragedy and loss prevail because of untimely deaths – but that’s really an oxymoron.  There’s no such thing as a timely death, is there? When I’m meandering on the cemetery grounds, I reverently call to mind that I’m taking photos and meditating among the dearly departed, who spiritually welcome me as a guest. 

How do I know? Even on the most overcast, glum-weather days, the grayish clouds and looming threat of sprinkles disappear the moment I arrive.  I know what you’re thinking!  I’m not talking about crossing over or channeling – I don’t know anything about the other-worldly-stuff, leaving that topic where it rests.  But, my experience is true; I have photos bearing testimony.  I gently suggest you go and see for your special self.

Special --that’s how I felt a couple of days ago at the RVMC Memorial Day ceremonies. I walked among many branches, only this time my trek wasn’t about the trees.  Young boys and girls, women and men were wearing starched, pressed uniforms of color: pure white, navy blue, light blue, dark tan, khaki green and camouflage, each shade denoting a particular service in our U.S. military.

I was privileged to have randomly perched next to this man and that woman, using a genteel spoon of inquiry for stirring up kind strangers’ distant and complex past.  Later, I noticed that the age of those I interviewed didn’t appear anywhere in my notes.  I suppose I didn’t ask because they freely shared an approximate chronology of their military service marked by significant, wartime events in our U.S. history: WWII; The Korean War (or both); Vietnam; Desert Storm; Afghanistan; civil unrest and riots, too numerous to mention here, but you can check out Wikipedia for those incidents in which the National Guard was called upon to help restore order on U.S. soil –or whatever military archives you desire.

Assuredly, scholarly lines written in our history textbooks will never compare to the first-hand accounts of how those furrowed, facial lines and once approximated, faded, suture lines came to pass. Similarly, couples proudly shared their personal history indicating the length of time their respective marriages have endured: fifty, sixty-plus years.  I’m guessing that most of my subjects were well over 50 years of age. One gentleman, though dressed in a dated uniform, didn’t look a day over 50.

 I would’ve thought that Mr. Ybarra, an elderly gentleman wearing a heavy, wool, Army jacket, would have sought shade in the ampitheater as he shared but a portion of his story with me as we sat in direct, scorching sunlight.

“Don’t you want to take your jacket off? How about moving over there, in the shade,” I said, pointing across the way.

“Oh, no." This is my uniform,” answered Mr. Ybarra, readily. The ampitheater, structured like a small, sports stadium, has a continuum of elevated concrete slabs for seating, adjacent to a pond.  The lattice, wood panels covering the ampitheater offered respite from the heat.

“Can I get you some water? I know that the Navy cadets are swarming around here with bottles of ice, cold water,” I said.

“No, thank you. I have some,” Mr. Ybarra answered, holding up a half-filled, plastic bottle. “I’m a native. I was born in east L.A. I like the sun. It looks like you do, too, with that nice tan,” he said.

“I’m a native, too. Hacienda Heights, not far from Whittier Boulevard and Highway 39. I’m a not-so-nimble, surfer chick,” I said. We both laughed.  I was curious as to Mr. Ybarra’s age the day he decidedly signed his name on the dotted, recruiting line.

“I was 19 when I enlisted. I trained, overseas, for one year. After that, the Army placed me with the 79th Infantry; Regiment 315; Charlie Company,” he said.  “I fought in the Battle of Normandy; D-Day.”

“What rank did you achieve?” I asked.

“Poof! Just like that!” he laughed, snapping his fingers in the air. “I was appointed staff sergeant because they needed to replace my staff sergeant,” he said.  I didn’t ask what happened to his superior officer, but I chose to think that he was promoted just as quickly, given the nature of the infamous, allied attack on June 6, 1944. (http://youtu.be/31nt2fsMORU).

His Army hat, also made of wool, was decorated with various pins.  Above his left, breast pocket, I noticed myriad, colorful ribbons with dangling medals attached.

“I was wounded, twice, so I have two, Purple Hearts,” he explained, grasping the notability between his fingers. “This other one’s for good conduct and this one here is because I served as squad leader,” he said, sifting through the display of his medallions.

“Given youth, Mr. Ybarra, would you join the military again?” I asked.

“I’d definitely do it again. This is my country. I’ve had many opportunities because I served. This country belongs to us,” he said, emphatically and without hesitation, while the sun shined on him as though it were a spotlight.

Right then, Fred Mora, another veteran with whom I spoke earlier, walked up, sharing a huge smile.

“We served together in the Battle of Normandy,” he said, looking at me while shaking Mr. Ybarra’s hand.

Mr. Mora told me that he had also served in the Army, signing up in 1941 when he was 17 years old.  17 --  barely old enough to drive and too young to vote. He was just a boy.  During WWII, he fought in five, major campaigns against the Germans. He was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery.

“Do tell,” I encouraged Mr. Mora.

“Our troops landed in Southampton, England. It was like there were mini-battlefields: mounds of dirt covered with hedges. We were assigned to go from house-to-house in search of German soldiers. There was a lot of hand-to-hand combat.  Anyway, I could hear German soldiers talking on one of the hills. I told my men to take cover while I checked it out. Of course, the Germans saw me and there was a skirmish,” he said without mentioning use of any verbal negotiation, rather, using the weaponry of a machine gun.  He made sergeant and then retired. He was twenty-one years old when his service was up in 1945.

“Mr. Mora, you were pretty young when you served. Any advice?” I asked.

“You know, I had a lot of intense training before I went on the front lines. I just kept moving along, trying to keep out of harm’s way, that’s all,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Mora (Connie) quietly sat in between me and Mr. Mora as he told me this portion of his war-time experience before he caught up with Mr. Ybarra.

“We’ve lived in southern California the whole time. We’ve been married for 64 years,” she said, beaming.

I spied another, apparent veteran, Don Hubble, who served in both the Navy and the Air Force. He was in the military, collectively, for 26 years.

“I was a kid just out of high school. I decided to go Navy in 1944. I ended up on battleships which are like closed cities. I felt really confined, so when my time was up in 1946, I joined the Air Force. I was assigned to maintain heavy equipment. I liked that a lot better,” he said.

Today, Mr. Hubble is a member of the Hemet Elk’s Lodge and he serves homeless veterans in an unaffiliated thrift store. 

“I counsel the young fellas. Most of them are under 25 years of age when they enlist. I know the feeling of uncertainty because I was 18. I didn’t know any better.  That was probably a good thing,” he said, laughing.

Finally, I come across, Mona Potts, a pretty lady, sitting all alone, dressed in a white shirt emblazoned with an American flag.

“My husband, Dan, died last week,” she said. She began to cry, so I offered her a napkin from my purse. “I know he’d want me to be here.”  A young man took the seat next to her.

“This is my grandson, Tim. He’s 27. His dad…my son…died a few years ago, too,” she said, drying her tears.  “My husband served in the Army Air Corp….that’s what it was called before they named it the Air Force. He placed fuses in the bombs and he flew P-38s. He was a docent at the P-38 museum. We met in 1949 and married in 1952; 60 years,” she conveyed, trying to smile through her pain.

Through the pain of loss, of past experience, of serving in the military, I felt each veteran’s sense of commitment to their spouses (and vice versa), to their children and to their country.  Perhaps it was because I was sitting among the wheat; no chaff to be found anywhere, not even among the toughest-looking veterans wearing colors on the backside of their leather vests – who were gracious enough to pose for a group photo.

On the backside of the RVMC toward the west, a large, patch of dirt stares blank from the surrounding, green fill of grass, save for the wooden stakes posting a piece of paper bearing a name, a rank, a military branch and dates separated by that fleeting, finite dash of mortal destiny. The soldiers haven’t physically arrived, as yet, though their final resting place awaits.

The RVMC is located at 22495 Van Buren Blvd. in Riverside.  It’s the third-largest cemetery in the National Cemetery Administration. The resting place was established in 1976 and opened on Veteran’s Day, 1978. Both the living and the departed rest on 921, beautiful acres. For information, call:

 951-653-8417. Hours for visitation: 0800-Sunset. Administrative office hours: 0800-1630. http://www.cem.va.gov/cems/nchp/riverside.asp