It said: IN LOVING MEMORY: Sgt. John Kyle Daggett. The white Toyota Tundra pick-up. with the Washington license plate, was going somewhere and the message went with it.  I stayed close for four or five miles while I thought about all the Sgt. Daggetts whose names should be on their next of kin’s vehicles.

When I had to exit Hwy. 205 for NE Glisan I pulled alongside hoping to see the driver, but instead I saw a decal on a side window. It was a copy of the once famous ‘Kilroy Was Here’ logo, the one that showed a nose and the top of a head resting on a fence. But this one was different.  The nose and head were there alright, but the verse said: “A Hero Was Here- JKD”.

Too bad that there aren’t another 4,000+ cars, trucks and other means of transportation traveling across America in a single line so the full impact of how many Sgt. Daggetts we’ve lost can be vizualized.

It is now August 2008, and a full three years have passed since I was motivated enough by the War in Iraq to write about it.  About all I can do now is to include what I wrote then.

Numb and Number

© Mr. Blin �?? August 2005

When the toll reached over 700, I thought that was a lot.
Now I read that it�??ll soon exceed 1,900 men and women. Dead.
Multiply that number by 10 for those who died in their sorrow,
And that is just from their immediate families.

The brass says: �??We�??re going to be there for four more years.�??

So we can multiply 19,000 by four times more.
What you get is 76,000.
Maybe add a fudge factor, if we are not getting the real numbers.
Now is that large enough to get us to stop raising the count?

The president won�??t admit his math mistakes.

Do we need to find another 76,000?
The Spirit of 1776?  I don�??t think so.
These numbers may look like penny ante when compared
To the big wars, the ones we are so proud of.  Like WW I and WW II.

Don�??t bring up the Civil War; that was only about killing our brothers.

Oh, and find a number for those trying to live without limbs.
They can�??t even count to ten on their fingers and toes.
Let alone know how they are going to make it all add up.
How many Moms are there in spirit at Camp Casey?

America needs to do the math.

Who counts the lives lost by Iraqi and Afghanistan civilians?
If this were a pledge drive, the red line should already be at the top.
Tell me again, how many WMD�??s were found?
Oil, can be found in �??foil,�?? which is what we�??ve become.

Democracy is priceless, but at what cost?

What purpose do these numbers serve?
The president says the dead soldiers served their country.
Many of their families may have a different opinion on this matter.
�??Served Up�?? may be their unfortunate choice of words.

Won�??t we ever learn that every lost life counts?

Here are some of their ages: 27, 34, 27, 19, 24, 22, 22 and 38.
A grand total of 213 years.  The line forms to the right.
These ages were from this week�??s reported casualties.
They belonged to the 69th, 278th, 7th, 2nd and 463rd.

The Associated Press count has seven more then the Defense Dept.�??s tally.
Odd that the numbers don�??t match up, but nothing else does.

I�??ve read and re-read those numbers from today�??s Oregonian.
What do I do about my numbness with these endless numbers?
I can�??t skip to the sports pages to find numbers that matter.
Ken Griffey, Jr. said it well: �?? I don�??t matter, those in uniform do.�??

Maybe like Private Ryan, some day there�??ll be a movie of this war.
A possible title: Numb and Number.
But, Jim Carey wouldn�??t touch that script because it isn�??t funny!
Actually what is funny any more?  We are losing our bones.

Directly in front of us was a bicycle with a shirtless rider. OK, I thought, but that’s hardly newsworthy on a sunny afternoon. What was she so excited about, I wondered. Then she shouted again: “Look at the dog on his shoulders!”

“Oh, my god,” I replied. Sure enough, a medium sized dog balanced like an Olympic gymnast on a balance beam. Without moving, it held its position as it stretched across the rider’s shoulders. No wonder I didn’t see the dog at first, it was the same color as the rider’s sporting tan.

The closer we got, the dog looked like a young Pit Bull. Maybe the driver and his dog were Siamese twins. A loose red leash was the only other connection between the two of them. I wondered how fast this bike, rider and dog could go. Maybe 25 mph would be their top speed.

I then said to Kathleen: “Where’s your camera?” Now she was multi-tasking, and Without letting up on the accelerator put the window down and reached out with the camera. She kept one eye on the prey and one on the road while she took a shot or two. Meanwhile, I felt like a patient in a dentist chair, anxious to know how everything looked. She announced that the results were good.

Our pursuit continued until we stopped for a red light and they made it through. Now we lost sight of them; for good, I feared. Suddenly the rider and his pal reappeared from an intersecting street near Burnside, and Kathleen was now playing the role of an Indy race car driver. I played the role of her sponsor, when I said: “Don’t lose ‘em.”

She managed to stay a bumper away for three or four more blocks until the rider sensed that we were close behind, or his hitch-hiker was also a ‘people whisperer.’ The bike cut sharply to the left and sprinted against the oncoming traffic, if only for a moment. The dog and rider had won, or escaped. We looked like we lost, because We couldn’t follow them any longer. In fact, we won too!

Kathleen was still excited as she relived the event. I was left to wonder if someone could teach that dog another trick, like taking pictures of trailing motorists.

At the same time another car, a sleek black Mercedes, waited in traffic for the parking place to open. She also waived to signal that she saw the sticker on the pole.

So far so good; she parked and on exiting the car went directly to the pole. Whoops! She was walking around the car and out into the street, and instead of getting something from inside the car, she put the sticker on the outside of the driver’s side window. I jumped up from my seat at the table and with napkin in hand dashed out the door to play the role of a Good Samaritan.

I got her attention alright and kept it while saying that the ticket had to be placed on the curb side window or she’d likely get a parking violation. She looked at me as though I had dropped off of a cloud and didn’t have a clue.

Sensing hoplessness, I returned to the table inside.

When lunch was over I went out to the sidewalk and turned left to go down Broadway. This move brought me alongside the SUV. On, no. She only got it half right. Somehow she’d stuck the sticker on the inside of the passenger-side window, which was a good start, but the important printed information as to when the ticket expired was facing inside. How’d she do that? Portland’s parking posse could soon write another ticket.

The windows and the car�??s surface were also covered with a sticky substance, no doubt from the same tree that dropped the leaves. It was so coated with this stuff that I could barely see inside. Fortunately, from what I could discern, no one lives there. I know a picture is worth a 1,000 words, so I�??ll keep my comments brief and add a picture. You can fill in the other 900 words.

One question remains. Is this car a police exhibit or a decoy, a squatter�??s home, a shrine, a mirage, or just one poor soul of a car that lost its way?

After all these months in obscurity I feel guilty for bringing its condition to a larger audience, not to mention to all those drivers who failed to pay attention to what’s been happening in town. But, I should give them a break, they were all heading west on Clay and likely thinking only about getting out of Dodge.

But his pace was almost too slow to avoid a car next to me that decided to jump as soon as the light turned green. Whew! He made it. And he `continued going south and out of view.

Why did he cross the street? He didn�??t look like a chicken.

The next sighting of wheelchair-bound citizens was banded together on the sidewalk alongside SW 10th and SW Salmon. One, a young man, had neither a right leg nor a left leg. (Iraq?) One of the others appeared to have two good legs, but no feet. Otherwise he would have been walking or just leaning against the building. The two remaining members of this rendition of the four Houseless Men had wheelchairs, legs and feet. Which of those parts were broken? A quartet for sure, but maybe not a quarter between them.

What were they talking about? The weather, or whether thou go�??est.

Turning down Salmon I spotted a gentleman waiting in his wheelchair (who steels a wheelchair; it isn�??t like taking a shopping cart from Fred Meyer, Inc.?) at the front steps of Portland�??s bastion of successful businessmen and more recently women, the Arlington Club. I should have mentioned that today was a warm August day. This squire may have been waiting here for quite awhile. He certainly displayed no need to adhere to the Club�??s strict dress code, which made it obvious as to why he had not been invited inside. His spare tire was getting a full frontal sun tan.

Was he thinking about the Club? It didn�??t look wheelchair accessible, shirt on or off.

My journey and sampling continued. On the corner across from The Hilton a man who is often there on his wheelchair, without feet I may mention, had an audience of one. And it was one of the types that belong to the Arlington Club. This gentleman, in a suit, had stopped for an afternoon chat. He looked to be of the same age as the chair-bound conversationalist, and he was making a financial contribution. But the best part was they shared a mutually crafted smile.

I gained no question for this duo. This was not their first sidewalk encounter; you could tell.

Based on this certainly non-scientific sampling I drew the following conclusions: (a) most wheelchairs, which are those without a power assist, are inhabited by some of the most unfortunate of our citizens, (b) some days I can�??t find any of the electric powered wheelchairs with occupants who catch your eye, like the lady with the very tiny body and little feet, but always wears a great hair-do, or the man who�??s spine is so twisted that all he can do is look askance, yet he makes his way into Key Bank�??s branch where he uses the teller behind the counter like a drive-up window, and (c) the rest of us show little or no concern for those without walking skills, because no one I saw who could have offered a spare hand, let alone a spare tire, did so.

Was one of them the father of these children, or were they each the fathers of one of the children? Or was neither one a father, just guys being �??good guys�?? who were taking the little guys out to the mall? Frankly, I think the kids were in the way today. The kids had no choice, and the young adults made all the wrong choices.

Lloyd Center near-mishaps were not yet over. As we walked near a display of dresses I almost stepped on a young girl who was laying on the floor while talking on her cell phone.

Two days earlier while having lunch at Grand Central Bakery a young toddler arrived near where I was sitting and she proceeded to pick up food from the floor. Her slightly older sister arrived on the scene in a minute or two later and removed what was left uneaten from her sister�??s hand. I looked in the direction where I supposed the mother was, yet no one moved closer to the little girl until a woman (I cannot use the word �??mother�??) appeared. The first thing she did is put her cell phone away and then she reached down and shook the older child, while leaving the toddler to find her next discarded morsel on the floor.

I wanted to help, or say something, but I remained speechless and stayed out of the way.

What was the right thing to do? What was the cause of all three of these episodes? Was it the lack of good parenting or the lack of time to complete a given task that made these events so disturbing? How did any of us survive our childhoods?

One person who passed my spot was out of character when it comes to walking. If anyone should have been on foot, it would be this security guy. Not here. No, he�??d been given a Segway scooter to buzz around on. Trouble was it made him look even taller, like John Wayne looking over a herd of cattle. Still he could still be a �??flatfoot�?? since all he did was stand in one place.

Soon after I ordered and began to try to get into the mass of information about the car a young, athletic man, with two sons, was shown their way to the table immediately to my left. When one of the two boys bolted for the front door I saw the dad catch up to him and hosted his arms high and settled him into the bench against the wall. The waitress had already set up two children�??s chairs and one adult chair on the side closer to me. The boys may have been twins, both about five. I have twin grandsons, six months old

One of the sons easily picked himself up and got into a child�??s chair. His brother slipped out of sight as the dad pulled out a couple of sets of colored pens and paper. The boy in the chair had no difficulty starting to draw. The other son was less interested and continued to squirm. With patience and hugs the dad gave most of his attention to the son next to him. He tried encouragement and more hugs, but it was not easy. It looked to me like this son wanted to be sure he was in a safe environment.

Trying not to stare was difficult, and I forced myself to keep reading. Still my eyes wanted to know more of what was happening. Finally I saw the face of the son who was next to his dad. It was a Downs face, although not without leaving a possible question as to whether this was in fact true.

The dad looked like a fast rising business executive, one who might not have time to spend with his family. Looks are deceiving. This dad was used to multi-tasking.

Next the waitress showed the mother with a little girl to the table. Greetings were exchanged as the daughter/sister was eased into her booster chair. Mom handed dad a colorful backpack and he placed its contents on the table. They were plastic toys, all for the son next to him. They may have been his closest friends they way they were welcomed.

I had also been watching a young couple sitting at a table to the left of the son with the animal collection. They looked to be married, but at least tonight, they were childless. The man was quite a man. He recognized the situation and turning toward the family made a comment and a gesture that was immediately welcomed. He was wearing a Washington State Cougar sweatshirt. That made one more animal for the collection. How many of us would so easily have joined in and said something worthwhile under those circumstances?

Earlier this week The Oregonian carried a story about a 29 year old girl, with Downs Syndrome, who swam 12 miles across Lake Tahoe. The article said that last year she was part of a relay team crossed the English Channel. Putting that achievement in the present tense of what I was observing, left me but with one thought. She had managed through dedication and her family�??s love and support to swim through life. Tonight I learned that this young man too would swim through life. He had all the love and support he would need.