In the town of Holliston, Massachusetts, there is a veteran who has a mission. Each year he hand letters white signs in bold clear black letters with the name, rank, place of birth, and age of each soldier who died in the past year. He has been doing this each November since 2003. With the help of some of his friends, he posts the signs with the names facing the oncoming traffic in both directions on telephone poles that run through streets in town. Each sign has the flag of the country where the soldier was a citizen above the name. They are not all from the United States. They are not all men.
There are so many signs, that they extend into the bordering towns. And, even though the town is small, it takes several minutes just to drive through the long and winding road from one side of the town to the other. The main street is heavily traveled, used by many people from neighboring communities who drive through on their way to work, or shop, or get to some other destination.
When I first noticed the signs, I had already driven past several of them unaware. My thoughts were on where I was going. As one by one the signs and their messages began to enter my consciousness, I realized what they meant. Their simple message began to insert itself into my soul. My breath became shallow and my heart began to beat harder. I slowed down my driving to notice each sign. I tried to read as many names as I could while continuing to drive.
When the traffic speed would pick up, I might get only the first name of a person: Eric, Jose, Chris, Jared, Shawn, James, Terry, and Scot. Then, the ages began to have meaning for me: 18, 25, 32, 50. Each was a person; some may have had children of their own, and even grandchildren. They all had families and friends who missed them now. And each person had a place he or she had hoped to return to some day: Arizona, New Hampshire, Arkansas, or Ohio.
This year someone complained to the telephone company because the “names kept coming at me and coming at me until I was shaking.” Shaking in the presence of so much loss, so much sacrifice, seems the least we can do.
My Turn 