Scar's of Freedom

A brief encounter with a stranger and a lesson that lasted a lifetime. (revised)

Cramp 1-13 Entry
WC. 988

The Scar’s of Freedom

At the end of the week he disappeared, but sometimes a week can last a lifetime.
It’s been many years now, close to fifty or so. I’m ashamed to say I can’t recall his name. Yet I recall well that night and the weeks that followed, and the eternal respect and gratitude I have for this man and others like him, to this day and till the day I die.

It was one of those dog-day sweltering summer nights we were gathered on the front porch of a buddy. The porch towered several feet above ground level with a wide staircase leading down to the sidewalk. We often gathered on this spot as one of our hang outs.
My buddy’s house was on the lower extension of a street lined with single and two family homes and drive ways extending up a steep hill and outcropping, to a park and wooded area a top the hill.
Half dozen houses down to the left sat a tiny mom and pop neighborhood grocery store on the corner.
An intercepting street followed the parameter and base of the hilly outcroppings in our town known locally as the highlands.
The sun had set hours before and it was getting late. We were the only ones out, don’t recall if it was a weekend or not, but sure we were enjoying a couple brews for comfort that summer night from the heat.
The man, a stranger to the neighborhood no one knew him. He just appeared down the street at the intersection staggering and stumbling across the street at the intersection half dozen houses up the street.
We all chuckled at the site among ourselves at first wondering who this drunk staggering across the street was. Prior to stepping up on the sidewalk at the store on the corner he turned and began staggering down the street toward our location. As he drew closer it became obvious the man was black.
He stumbled, leaning on cars along the street as if they were hand rails until Leaning on the trunk of a car motioned and waved to us for helping hand. We approached him.
It was obvious he was in rough shape and seriously hurt and bleeding. We didn’t have cell phones back in the Mid-Seventies, or 911. It was late and someone would have had to run in the house and call the police on the old land lines we had growing up.
A short discussion and decision was made among us. Help him into my buddy’s car and rush him to a local hospital E.R. that happened to be half a dozen miles up the road. This would save valuable time while someone called the police on the old fashion land line in the house.

Three of us went in the car. The rest of us remained behind awaiting their return and chatting about what had just happened. They never came back that night; we all eventually went home and turned in for the night.
All that we knew at the time was he had been stabbed in a bar fight on the other end of town nine or ten blocks away in the down town area. He had somehow managed to stumble wounded and bleeding for ten blocks before encountering us hanging out.
In the days following, we got the updates of the wild night and trip to the local hospital by our Good Samaritan friends.
After explaining how they came about him and how he just sort of stumble into the neighborhood and upon us to the police at the E.R. there they decided to hang around the hospital a while hoping to hear good news that he was ok.
After a while boredom from waiting set in and they somehow got the bedeviling bright idea of having some fun and engaging some wheel chair races up and down one of the hospitals corridors that was secluded from the E.R. area.
It was weeks later, one night again this dude comes strolling down the street. This time he was ok and wanted to come by and thank the guys that helped him and gave him a ride to the E.R.
In the weeks that followed he stopped by a several times, always with a few beers to share on those hot summer afternoons.
I wasn’t there this one afternoon when some friends were hanging out and he happened to be passing by and stopped for chit chatt.
But recall well, the story of one of my buddy’s about that hot sweltering afternoon and his horror he witnessed.
The stranger was sitting on one of the lower porch stair treads when he took off his shirt. Those that were sitting on the upper level steps had clear view of the scars on his back.
The white pink pail scars of old wounds that are glaring on the skin of a dark skinned or black person. There were multiple scars that covered much of his back and shoulders.
As it turned out this man was a Prisoner of War, a POW during the Vietnam war which resulted in torture and lifetime scars as a reminder of the horrors he endured in captivity.
The few times this stranger stopped by we enjoyed his company, chit-chat, and the cold brews he would come with for us to enjoy on those hot summer days.
And at the end of the week he disappeared never to be seen or heard from again, but he left a life time impression that has lasted a lifetime. That Freedom Is Not Free!
At the end of the week he disappeared.
I hope this man, this hero, this warrior, patriot, is still alive and well, and enjoying his ripe old age, children and grandchildren as I reflect on this flashback in time to my youth and that man.