"Beautiful Boy"

Before you cross the street,
Take my hand,
Life is just what happens to you,
While your busy making other plans,

Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,
Darling, Darling,
Darling Sean.
John Lennon "Beautiful Boy"

An early morning phone call from an old friend can set the stage for a terrific day.

Plans to be made?

Laughs to be had about old times?

Old friends provide a unique leveling balance.

Such was not the case this morning. Vietnam buddy Terry Tillery called to tell me that Sean Mecham, the 31 year old son of our former Navy Hospital Corpsman, had died yesterday. The cause of death was reported to be a staff infection run wild.

I had breakfast, put on a jacket, and went for a walk.

I am in Cheshire, Connecticut. Although it was bright and sunshiny outside, one glance at the tightly closed rhododendron leaves told me that it was very cold. Undaunted, I turned down the street, and headed off in no particular direction while thinking of the Beautiful Boy that I had never known.

After years of searching, I’d reconnected with Mac four years ago. He was living in Sacramento, not far from his childhood home. He was happily married, had two grown children (a boy and a girl), and had a good job. On the surface, all was well – even better than well. We loved having each other back in our lives.

I walked through Cheshire’s suburban neighborhoods, cut through back yards, was stymied by several dead ends, and was soon largely lost. My mind was elsewhere. How does a 31 year old man just die from an infection? We have become so inured to the miracle of modern medicine that early natural death is nearly incomprehensible.

I pointed myself back in the general direction of Cheshire’s Main Street and, some time later, reemerged a mile south of town between the 7-11 and Dunkin' Donuts. Braced against the wind, I headed north, up the hill towards the center of town. As surely as he had lived, Sean Mecham was now dead. I could not walk away from that terrifying fact.

Once back in town, I noticed a curved wall in front of the brick City Hall. It was the Cheshire War Memorial. It contained the names Cheshire residents who had served their country in conflicts going back to the Civil War. It is impressive. To one side, was a bronze plaque honoring 1st Lt. H.C. Barnum, USMC, a son of Cheshire who had been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for service with the Third Marine Division in Vietnam the year before Mac Mecham and I arrived in country. I knew Barney, as he is known. He and I had met on occasion in Washington and had friends in common, including Bill Negron, Mac’s and my company commander in Vietnam.

Wow, I thought, small world.

Prior to our recent reunion, I had last seen Mac in the summer of 1968 at the Oakland Naval Hospital where he and other comrades were recovering from horrific wounds suffered while our unit was under heavy attack months earlier. Mac recovered, met and married Lise, and several years later, had their first child – a boy - who they named Sean.

I never met Sean, but knew that he had had a difficult life. He suffered from severe addictions that had torn at his family, friends, and community for most of his adult life. Mac and Lise struggled as parents in ways that few of us can imagine. Some times it was scary, some times it was a nightmare, but at all times it was their beloved son, struggling with unspeakable demons deep within his soul.

Standing in the cold, staring at the bronzed name of my friend Barney Barnum, I realized that towns do not build memorials to young men like Sean Mecham. His brief life, unlike those commemorated on the Cheshire Wall, was one that we as communities try to forget rather than extol.

Where is the glory in the life of a young man who clawed every minute of every day to get past the inbred monsters that precluded him from living a normal life? In 31 years, he never even got to the starting line that the rest of us assume and expect.

This day, we rightfully continue to honor Barney Barnum as we have for 43 years. His service was extraordinary and stands as a paragon. Mac and I were Marines. Barney was a great Marine.

May we now add Sean Mecham and the thousands like him living and passed who so inspire us all, often by executing such seemingly simple tasks as getting out of bed each morning, dusting themselves off, and trying to get back in the game.

That is how I define courage.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack