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Thoughts from the Ditch

By Tony Delcavo

Two narrow farm roads meet on the flat Texas ranchlands and leave a triangle of grass at the intersection. You must stay off the grass, however. It is on private property. You have to stay opposite, in one of the weed-infested ditches that is public right-of-way. A hundred and fifty campers are squeezed into the ditches along one of the narrow roads, having made sure that the wheels of their vehicles are not touching the pavement.

Billy Kelly and Bill Perry, who accompanied Cindy Sheehan with several other vets on the first day to Bush's ranch

Standing motionless, you sweat more in thirty minutes than you would running three miles in Colorado. Don't step in the tall grass. A local rancher has warned you about the rattlesnakes that are found there routinely. Don't put your fingers under the tarp when you lift it. The scorpions like the shade under there as much as you would. You can't see the bugs, but are constantly aware of their presence as you itch all over. Everyone you see is sunburned in spite of the SPF-30 they applied that morning.

Across one leg of the triangle, the CNN truck sits in its own ditch, waiting for history to happen. Another leg is crowded with booths occupied by groups with names like Veterans and Military Families Against the War, Veterans for Peace, Crawford Peace House, and Iraq Veterans Against the War. The last leg is a quarter-mile-long ditch that is marked with 1,800 crosses, 1,800 roses, 1,800 names, the grief of 1,800 families. You hear the muffled weeping of a newfound friend who has learned that her Army penpal has died in Iraq, even as she keeps trying in her own way to stop the insanity. As you walk along reading the names, they somehow get too blurred to read, and now all you see is the names of your comrades in Vietnam who never came back.

In the back of your mind you wonder if one of the pickup trucks speeding by might be occupied by some moron who will want to desecrate this memorial to our brave soldiers who willingly fought in another unjust, unwinnable war at the behest of a corrupt government You want nothing more than ten minutes alone with any one of the chickenhawks who sent naive, brave, and patriotic men and women to fight wars of conquest in foreign jungles and deserts, while they hid behind their daddies' connections. They are literally above it all as they fly overhead in their air-conditioned helicopter, while you stand there with the tears and sweat running together on your cheeks. Another Vietnam vet walks by and silently offers a hug.

But there is no place on earth you would rather be on this day.

On this day a tall, soft-spoken, unassuming woman walks along the ditch, greeting everyone in her own quiet manner. She is Cindy Sheehan, whose son, Casey, was killed in Iraq, having thought it was his duty to answer the call of his country. She sits on the ground, holds your hand, and falls asleep almost instantly, even though she is doing a live interview on CNN in fifteen minutes. Later she leads a candlelight vigil while holding the hand of an Iraq veteran, imagining it is Casey's hand. When reality floods back in, she cannot hold back the tears, knowing she will never again hold Casey's hand, hear his voice, or listen to his dreams. She reads a poem written by Casey's grieving sister, and now you are the one who can't hold the tears back.

At the end of the day Cindy remembers to check her schedule to see if she can fulfill your dream to have her visit Denver. Her calendar is clear on October 15, and she says she will be there. You go away with the hope that everyone in Colorado will connect with her, just like the residents of Camp Casey, who came from virtually every state and places like Belgium, Australia, and Korea. Just nine months ago it seemed that there was no hope that our country would come to its senses. Now you know that one woman has given the world hope, and you can't help but love her for it.

First day in Crawford, Texas