The Color of Service

Five men sit on the stoop of a downtown Charleston restaurant on this fine fall evening. Young revelers, out on the town, stroll the sidewalks, laughing and talking loudly on cell phones or to each other. Vehicles roar by on densely packed main streets. And these men sit, watching it all with unbelieving eyes, shaking their heads in wonder at the direct and utter contrast to the Charleston they remember. The Charleston of 58 years ago.

Indeed, 58 years ago these men dry docked in the port of Charleston, disembarking from their vessel, the USS "Leeky Weeks", for a few nights on Charleston town, a very different city then than it is today. These men served together in the US Navy in the '40s and '50s, some for 4 years, some for more. All are veterans, not just of wars but of life as well. Two lost their wives 7 years ago. One of them had no foot. One had two knees and two shoulders replaced as well as two heart attacks. He is now 85 and all smiles. One has seven boys, four of whom (long ago) were in college at the same time. These men, with their legs outstretched or tucked under them, some with canes, most wearing hats that proudly declare their service, each had a story to tell. And I was there to listen. And watching the party-goers and students, tourists and families walk by, I had no desire to join in. I wanted to be right where I was, listening to this living history.

It happened by accident. I had been wandering the streets, doing some night photography of Charleston, and I decided to lean up against a building, the same building upon whose stoop these men sat, to glance through my camera photos. And one of them spoke to me. I turned and saw this charming sight - these men on this stoop -I and sat and I listened. And we talked. It was only 25 minutes, no more than that.

They spoke to me of one main street in Charleston -the only one worth visiting (where all the bars were located). They laughed over "Rubberneck Rosie", one of the bar keeps who "never got prettier no matter how much we drank but always had a dollar for us to get back on the bus and back to the ship". One spoke repeatedly of being baffled by this world, this city, saying "if you took me while I slept and dropped me in the middle of this city and I woke up here and you asked me to tell you where I was, I would have no idea. This is not the city I remember. "

They positively glowed under my queries, each one speaking over the other to tell me what they remembered. Each one joking and laughing and poking fun, together in this city for the first time in so many years. Brothers in arms, comrades, and friends, , these men fought together and re-unite each year in different cities, coming from all across the US, to reaffirm that they served their country well. And, with parting hugs over our short but meaningful acquaintance, I felt sad to see them shuttle away from me, back to their hotel, with so many questions unasked.

Though stooped and physically aged, these men were young at heart, in the highest of spirits, and spoke with pride of the days gone by and I was delighted to visit with them. They are a fleeting glimpse at the world as it is no longer, the world that many of us can only guess at from history books, movies and pictures. How many of us tap into this natural resource - this living history - and actually try to gain real perspective on what once was? This quickly passing group of people - they are the ones who remember. And if you stop, sit and talk awhile, you'll hear what they have to say.