Two Freds-2021

Every year at this time I think of what has happened in my life as well as what didn’t happen for 58,000 other Americans and 2,000,000 Vietnamese because of the Vietnam war. Politics aside, over 2,000,000 people perished in that war and never got to enjoy the long life I have been blessed with. This post, an annual remembrance, calls attention to one young man I knew well.

 On the May 1, 1995, I wrote:

April 30, 1995 marked the twentieth anniversary of the United States’ withdrawal from Vietnam. It is a date that seems to have become destined for routine remembrance and recall by those of us who lived through the era—one that can seldom be re-visited without tears.

As I sat at home yesterday watching the commemorative programs, I could not help but think about the story of the Two Freds. Fred Crans and Fred Fedder graduated from Haverling Central School in Bath New York—Crans in 1963 and Fedder a year before, in 1962. After high school, both attended Corning Community College for two years. Fred Crans was an unfocused young man who distinguished himself by flunking out, while Fred Fedder, more confident and focused, completed his studies and went on. Both eventually joined the military—Crans becoming a hospital corpsman serving with the Marines, and Fedder a warrant Officer helicopter pilot with the Army.

Fred Crans came back on a MedEvac flight after finishing his tour. Fred Fedder came back differently. His name is inscribed on The Wall. Fred Crans is approaching fifty. Fred Fedder is forever twenty-three.

Whenever I think about Vietnam these days, it is seldom about what was “right or wrong”, but about the horrendous and senseless waste of lives. Also, it is often about how so many of us go through this life cursing our fate, never once taking a moment to appreciate the good that is present in every moment we are afforded.

Fred Fedder never got a chance to carve out a life. Fred Crans got the chance to start over. He went to the University of Miami, where he graduated with honors. He got married, started a family, got divorced, picked up a Masters Degree, got married and divorced a second time, and still had the blessings of another chance. Many would look at Fred Crans’ life and say that he was a failure, considering all the opportunities he had been given. Others might think that his was representative of live among the Baby Boomers—a constant series of actions, effects, rebounds, and so on, ad mortis. 

From an outsider’s perspective, any of those observations would be correct. Fred Crans currently lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Waterloo, Iowa. His children live in Canton, Ohio with his first wife. He is starting over one more time. Like so many others who have encountered the downside of life, he has experienced depression first-hand. At times he has thought about running away to live a hermit’s life in Mexico.

Or worse.

But whenever he has been faced with that gloom and possible doom, two things have always brought him back: the thought of the terrible price his children would have to pay for such a stupid and capricious act, and the thought of his high school and college friend, Fred Fedder, who never got the second, third, fourth and fifth chances at life that he was given.

Maybe on every April 30th, the best use any of us Vietnam-era human beings can make of the time is this: Think of the 58,000 plus people whose names inscribed on The Wall represent lives never fully lived. We cannot bring them back. We can make a pledge not to let future generations suffer death in such a cavalier and meaningless fashion. And we can decide to find meaning and value in both the successes and failures that are part of the everyday lives that those 58,000 plus human souls were denied.

Take care, Freddy, I miss you.

Fred

In the eighteen years since I wrote those words, my personal life has continued to take its meandering course. Soon after I wrote the tribute, I got custody of my youngest son, and two years later I was living in Ohio again with both my boys. My life seemed to be a constantly improving scenario, with personal and professional success abounding. Today, I am married for the third time and living in Dubuque, Iowa with my wonderful wife Cathy, my two dogs (Buddy and Rhea) and my cat, Kianna. My sons live in St. Louis and Nashville and I have two wonderful grandchildren.

During those same eighteen years, we have proved that the lessons of Vietnam were short-lived at best, and another 4,000+ Americans and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis and Afghanis have paid with their lives needlessly and without justification.

Every Memorial Day, I think of my friend, Fred Fedder—what a great guy he was—always friendly and engaging, even to outsiders like myself. I think about how neither he nor the 58,000 plus other Americans (and the hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese) who were killed in that conflict deserved to have their lives erased over political hegemony.

And every year—at least for one part of one day—I know how fortunate I am.

Author’s note: Since my last revision, Buddy died, Rhea died, Kianna died and my marriage died. I have moved back to Cleveland where I live in a little house with my best friend Dusty, a red tick coonhound.

2019 Update: Time rolls on. I’m still in Cleveland and I have added another coonhound, Isabelle (Izzy) and a calico cat, Ginger to the squad. I work part time and coach Little League. I try to not be overwhelmed by my disappointment in the supposed leader of this country, but in the words of Johnny Cash, I Press On, with the knowledge that ensuing generations will solve the problems my generation and its greed created.

All of those of us who served in combat understand the finality of death at a young age. Those who honor those of us who served, no matter how sincere their sentiments, cannot possibly understand the context of war. Those who lost loved ones mourn a lifetime for the sons, daughters, grandsons and granddaughters they have been denied.

2021 Update 

Last year was truly terrible- between the pandemic that has killed nearly 600,000 people, the political unrest, racial violence and the insurrection against the U.S. Capitol., we have had a lot to digest. Over the course if the past four years, I have lost many friends- some to death and others to political differences. No matter how they were lost, the effect is an unhappy one. Still, I am here- soldiering on.

I try to remember this: On the worst day of my life, I am still alive and have an opportunity to enjoy the beauty of this world—something that was denied to my friend Fred Fedder and thousands of others like him.

Take care pal. I’ll stop by the next time I’m in Washington.

https://youtu.be/VMH0LBK9bN8