THE WALL OF FACES

Dear Spec 5 Brow,
Thank you for your service as an Airborne Qualified Still Photographic Specialist. It is another summer, as time continues to pass since Vietnam. It is important for us all to acknowledge the sacrifices of those like you who answered our nation's call. Please watch over America, it stills needs your courage and faithfulness. Rest in peace with the angels.

(From a memoir-in-progress)
For a year or so, Chris Brow sat in with the Burning Bush on harmonica. A harmonica was not a neat fit for a band that modeled its sound on Junior Walker and the All Stars, but Chris was a nice guy, refreshingly straight-up and straightforward, in jeans and a work shirt from Montgomery Ward’s, an awestruck tourist in the chaotic mix of black culture and psychedelia that drove the zeitgeist of the late Sixties. He was hard to say no to; and he could sing. Like Adrian [Guillary], Chris sang Southern blues, but Adrian would grumble his deep in his throat, as if he had his face on a table and was crying into his whiskey, while Chris’s were tense and fervid existential questions sung in high tenor.
One evening at Spinelli’s, during a break, Chris announced that he was going to enlist for Viet Nam. We were speechless once we’d all said “No shit!” What could you say?
Chris explained himself. “I’m looking for adventure, like Hemingway.”
No motive could have been nobler than that.

Dear SP5 Christopher Brow, sir

As an American, I would like to thank you for your service and for your sacrifice made on behalf of our wonderful country. The youth of today could gain much by learning of heroes such as yourself, men and women whose courage and heart can never be questioned.

May God allow you to read this, and may He allow me to someday shake your hand when I get to Heaven to personally thank you. May he also allow my father to find you and shake your hand now to say thank you; for America, and for those who love you.

With respect, and the best salute a civilian can muster for you, Sir

Curt Carter

Many times, it's the simple, spontaneous happenings - brief in duration - that make the most lasting memories. And so it is with this one:



Christopher Brow was the boy across the street when I was in elementary school. His family and mine were very close. He was ten years older than me, an age span that (for a youngster) can inspire both fascination and hero worship.



On occasion, Chris would 'pinch hit' for his sister, Karen, and babysit for us. This was always a treat because he would willingly play board games, race cars around my brother Randy's racetrack with us, AND let us stay up as late as we wanted.



One early summer morning when I was 5 years old, I was playing alone in the front yard. Chris popped his head out his front door, said he was going to fix his breakfast and asked whether I'd already eaten. I told him I had, but he said he could use some company, so I eagerly raced across the street.




Chris proceeded to make a real show out of the breakfast ritual, taking bowls of every size out(from the largest salad bowl to the smallest finger bowl) and asking me whether each was an appropriate cereal bowl or not.


After we (I) decided on a bowl, he went through the same routine to choose the right spoon, leaving no spoon or ladle unturned - even trying to fit each into his mouth!




I was (and still am) a great audience for the right kind of silliness; this breakfast show had me in stitches!





I'll never know what it was that possessed him to have so much patience with young kids. I've often theorized that he thought of 'alone' as 'lonely' and would reach out to keep kids from feeling that way.




What I do know is he was funny, kind and never hesitated to take the time to connect with members of my family when he was around.


Chris died in Vietnam in February 1969. His was the first funeral I ever attended, days short of my 11th birthday. It's more than 40 years later and I still miss him.

The Wall That Heals, 2004
Cairo, N.Y.
30 July 2004