The Ash Creek Papers

I am both fascinated and moved by how folks choose to represent and honor the memory of those who have departed.

I have passed too many stretches of road dotted with bouquets, wreaths and occasional crosses placed near stone walls, trees or phone poles… the spot marking a place where a life was taken. Perhaps it is too easy to assume that the deaths were caused by some form of negligence… speeding, talking on the cell phone and not paying attention, driving under the influence. Still… for those that placed those floral arrangements, the circumstances of the death is not as important as the absence that is felt in their lives.

For those of us who are not specifically connected, we have the luxury of being judgmental… “they have no one to blame but themselves.” But for those who knew, who loved… they can not escape the result of life’s severe decree… and their loss, their pain is displayed the many roads we pass.

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I can think of few Memorials that are as powerful as the one on the Mall in Washington, D.C. that honors the men and women who laid down their lives in Viet Nam. A black slab wall cut into a grassy knoll engraved simply with the names of those who are no more.

Wedged in the seams of that wall are pieces of paper bearing words from children who did not know their Fathers… or battle ribbons from those who had survived, and donated in loving memory to their buddies who did not make it back.

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There is a custom among European Jews to leave a stone when visiting a graveside. I love the simplicity… a plain tribute that is democratic in nature. I am a bit arbitrary about the stones I place… sometimes a perfect skipping stone from Woodmont, sometimes the nearest pebble to the headstone. Still, I feel compelled.

The concluding scene in Schindler’s List shows the actors from the film bringing the people they portrayed, and their families, by the grave of Oskar Schindler… placing a stone of memory to a Non-Jew, to a man of righteousness. To a Jew who survived that maelstrom, that plain rock represented an honor that no worldly wealth could surpass.

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I was driving thru Woodbury. A plain drive up Route 6 past more Antique Shops than you can count (interrupted only by beautiful Churches and liquor stores… I exaggerate). And last weekend I espied on the lawn fronting a simple home on the main drag a display of what must have been 3000+ small U.S. Flags sticking in the ground. It was, afterall, the weekend preceding our 5th Anniversary of 9/11. The Flags were the size of the ones they hand out along the parade routes of Memorial Day. But these flags were made of stiffened paper so that the Stars & Stripes would remain unfurled in a set wave.

Here is someone who filled their front yard with flags… maybe each one representing someone who lost their life in 9/11. Pass by that home at night and there is a flood light at ground level that casts a chilling dimension to the display.

Perhaps the resident lost someone on that fatal day. Or maybe it’s simply an expression of understanding.

And maybe that is the remaining responsibility for us… before each of these representations… understanding.

Ed Kirik had told me they were still in the area. I spotted one when I was on the Connector in Newtown just before getting on to I-84 East at Exit 11. I picked out the four engines as it traveled West and by the time I got to Exit 13 the big bird had come about and headed in my easterly direction. As it flew over I picked out the tail guns, the top turret and its clear nose. It was the first time I had ever seen a B-17 in the air. It reminded me of the day I saw a square masted “tall ship” under sail enter Long Island Sound. What a thrill. And what a thrill again.

In its day the B-17, dubbed the “Flying Fortress”, carried the lion’s share of our bombing missions against Germany in WWII. By war’s end 12,700 aircraft had come off the assembly lines at Boeing, Douglas and Vega. It had a crew of ten… pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier, flight engineer, radio operator, 2 waist gunners, tail gunner and ball turret gunner. The plane was known for its flight worthiness and its ability to “take a punch.”

The B-17 I saw was not heading over the Channel to paste a factory in Germany. Rather it was mid-way in a half hour flight out of Oxford Airport… a flight for a hand full of interested folks who could pay $450 for thrill of taking a spin in a vintage aircraft.

Ed had taken a flight out of Stratford two days before.

Ed’s Father had been a B-17 pilot during WWII. He flew 22 missions out of England for the 8th Air Force.

This is not the first time Ed had seen a B-17. Several years ago he and his Father had gone to see and inspect one on the tarmac of a local airfield. This is after Ed had spent years watching any WWII movie that had B-17s in it.

I am sure that Mr. Kirik had regaled his son with stories about the plane. And undoubtedly he would have amplified any information provided about the aircraft.

I could imagine Mr. Kirik being lost in memory strolling around that bird… thinking of times spent with brothers in arms. And I could imagine Ed’s pride in being there with his Father.

Ed and his Dad could not go up for a flight then, although Mr. Kirik wanted to go up one more time more than anything. Insurance and liability issues would not permit it.

And sadly Mr. Kirik passed away before those insurance issues were ironed out that allowed Ed to take that flight on Thursday.

The morning couldn’t have been better the day Ed traveled to Stratford. Blue skies and dry air. He went armed with a camera, a photo taken of his Dad in England during the War and a silver I.D. bracelet his Dad wore.

You have to hoist yourself up in the tail of the plane to get in. You then strap in during the take-off (and landing); but then you are free to move about the aircraft’s interior.

Ed took some great shots from what I believe would have been the waist gunners position. He also took a shot from the bombardier’s position in the clear nose. Wonderful shots of the Connecticut coast line.

We spoke about the flight later in the afternoon. Ed said that he had been on “cloud nine” all day. I could hear that in his voice. He had made that trip for him and his Dad. He had shown the photograph of his Dad to the crew, shared a smile and a story or two I am sure.

Mr. Kirik didn’t take that flight. But in many important ways he did. It is a blessing of life that our experiences and memories extend beyond our own mortality. That we are able to share, even after our time here is no more.

I told Ed he was heading for a great night’s sleep. The comfort you feel when you lay to rest in a bed after a great day at labor, when your team wins a big one, when you can love and be loved without qualification and when you can take a journey of completion.