Amnesty: (n) an official pardon for people who have been convicted of political offenses

It is a concept beyond the comprehension of any young man living in America today.

But the reality in my youth was that at eighteen years of age, if you were not bound for college or standing around flat-footed, you could receive a letter in the mail from the Selective Service Administration, be drafted into the military, endure six weeks of basic training, two weeks back at home and then be shipped off to Indochina to fight a war that was only truly understood in the minds of aging politicians and deliberate generals.

It happened to my friend, Marty. He was a gospel singer. But because he was only nineteen years of age, he could sing Amazing Grace and slip out behind the church and tell you some of the dirtiest jokes to put pink in your cheeks.

He was fun. But he wasn’t college material.

So he was drafted.

Within a month he was gone off to basic training. Two months later, he was bound for Vietnam.

But before he left for basic training, he told me he was scared, against the war and wanted to run off to Canada to get out of the military.

He said the only reason he wouldn’t do it is because it would bring shame to his family and he did not want to be branded a coward or a Commie.

So he went.

Fifty-eight days later, they sent him home in a box. It was only six years after they buried my friend, Marty, that an amnesty was declared by the President for all those who objected to the war and went to Canada.

When the grace was offered to those who escaped across the border, I thought about Marty. Yes, he would have been returning to our country at twenty-eight years of age. And his parents probably would have gotten over the shame.

There is no amnesty from the grave.

May we all remember that the next time we’re scowling at an enemy across the pond, thinking about the nastiness of war.

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix