Covering the business of education and training

    Donald S., affectionately called Fish, at whose funeral we had gathered, was killed in that war. Fish was a high school classmate, but more importantly a close friend of my older brother and sisters. Fish, we were told, was bravely on patrol in a small two-syllable-named city in Vietnam, when he stepped on a mine and was, um, blown to pieces. Marine medical personnel pieced him back together again, dressed him sharply in his Marine blues, decorated him with ribbons and medals, painted him with make up (his face was talcum powder white and his lips were old blood red as he lay in the coffin), placed him in a pine box, draped it with an American flag and sent him home to us to be remembered, mourned and buried on this hillside. The many and bright colored flowers – petunias, gardenias, roses, lilies, and carnations - placed next to other tombstones, under granite angels and beside simple crosses did nothing to brighten up the sad, distraught, broken and angry mood of all who were there.