thedrifter
10-22-07, 07:49 AM
KEVIN CULLEN
Small move for troops
By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist | October 22, 2007
Every day, Katie Reilly looks out over a majestic stretch of rocky coastline from the living room of her Marblehead home, perched on Clifton Heights.
It is a breathtaking view, and yet it unsettles her sometimes because after she takes it all in each morning she reminds herself: We are a nation at war.
Like the vast majority of Americans, she has no one in her family in uniform, no one in harm's way, but the war gnaws at her.
"I get frustrated because I think so few of us are sacrificing anything," she said, standing in her kitchen, putting a chicken salad sandwich on a plate. "This is an invisible war. I'm 61 years old, I'm living this comfortable life, and there are people over there fighting and dying."
Katie had a friend named Bunny Hannaway. Bunny was an artist, and after the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq started, whenever Bunny would see a man or woman in military uniform, she would go up and talk to them, thank them, shake their hand, and, inevitably, hug them.
At first, it unnerved Katie. It seemed so forward, so imposing. But Bunny never wavered. "They deserve it," Bunny would say. And no one in uniform ever pushed her away.
Last year, as brain cancer slowly killed Bunny, Katie sat with her every day, holding her hand, talking. Bunny died in December. A few months later, Katie started pasting bumper stickers on her gold 2002 Nissan Pathfinder. The bumper stickers, nearly 100 of them, cover most of the car and pay tribute to the Marines, Army units such as the 10th Mountain Division and 101st Airborne, the Navy, and the Air Force.
Whenever she gets into her car, in her bucolic cul de sac, Katie Reilly is reminded of the war and the people who are in the middle of it. And wherever she goes, others are reminded. One day, she was doing errands in Peabody and returned to her parked car and found an elderly couple gently fingering the bumper stickers. They told her their son was a Marine serving in Afghanistan.
Like her friend Bunny Hannaway before her, when Katie sees a man or woman in a military uniform, she approaches them, thanks them, shakes their hand, and hugs them. No one has pushed her away.
"When I go up to them, a lot of them tense up at first," Katie said. "They think you're going to say something negative. But they're very appreciative. It's the least we can do for these people."
A while ago, Katie had to fly to San Diego. She was ninth in line at the check-in counter at Logan Airport when she realized a young Marine was standing in back of her. She offered to let the Marine go in front of her. He thanked her and said it wouldn't be necessary, but she insisted. Then the guy in front of her saw what was going on and did the same. Then the next person did the same, and soon the embarrassed Marine was at the front of the line.
"These are small gestures, I know," Katie said. "But just to acknowledge the people who are serving is important."
Not long ago, Katie drove into Boston, to Back Bay, to get some more stickers. On her way back to her parking space on Newbury Street, she found two meter maids circling her car. She assumed the worst.
An expired meter is one thing, but for all she knew there might be an extra fine for covering your car with bumper stickers.
But the meter maids weren't there to tag the car. They were admiring the stickers.
One of the meter maids confided that she has two sons serving in Iraq and then turned toward Katie and asked, "Who do you have over there?"
"Everyone," Katie replied.
On that sidewalk, on that day, the meter maid melted into Katie Reilly's arms and they hugged and cried and laughed, and then dried each other's eyes.
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.
Ellie
Small move for troops
By Kevin Cullen, Globe Columnist | October 22, 2007
Every day, Katie Reilly looks out over a majestic stretch of rocky coastline from the living room of her Marblehead home, perched on Clifton Heights.
It is a breathtaking view, and yet it unsettles her sometimes because after she takes it all in each morning she reminds herself: We are a nation at war.
Like the vast majority of Americans, she has no one in her family in uniform, no one in harm's way, but the war gnaws at her.
"I get frustrated because I think so few of us are sacrificing anything," she said, standing in her kitchen, putting a chicken salad sandwich on a plate. "This is an invisible war. I'm 61 years old, I'm living this comfortable life, and there are people over there fighting and dying."
Katie had a friend named Bunny Hannaway. Bunny was an artist, and after the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq started, whenever Bunny would see a man or woman in military uniform, she would go up and talk to them, thank them, shake their hand, and, inevitably, hug them.
At first, it unnerved Katie. It seemed so forward, so imposing. But Bunny never wavered. "They deserve it," Bunny would say. And no one in uniform ever pushed her away.
Last year, as brain cancer slowly killed Bunny, Katie sat with her every day, holding her hand, talking. Bunny died in December. A few months later, Katie started pasting bumper stickers on her gold 2002 Nissan Pathfinder. The bumper stickers, nearly 100 of them, cover most of the car and pay tribute to the Marines, Army units such as the 10th Mountain Division and 101st Airborne, the Navy, and the Air Force.
Whenever she gets into her car, in her bucolic cul de sac, Katie Reilly is reminded of the war and the people who are in the middle of it. And wherever she goes, others are reminded. One day, she was doing errands in Peabody and returned to her parked car and found an elderly couple gently fingering the bumper stickers. They told her their son was a Marine serving in Afghanistan.
Like her friend Bunny Hannaway before her, when Katie sees a man or woman in a military uniform, she approaches them, thanks them, shakes their hand, and hugs them. No one has pushed her away.
"When I go up to them, a lot of them tense up at first," Katie said. "They think you're going to say something negative. But they're very appreciative. It's the least we can do for these people."
A while ago, Katie had to fly to San Diego. She was ninth in line at the check-in counter at Logan Airport when she realized a young Marine was standing in back of her. She offered to let the Marine go in front of her. He thanked her and said it wouldn't be necessary, but she insisted. Then the guy in front of her saw what was going on and did the same. Then the next person did the same, and soon the embarrassed Marine was at the front of the line.
"These are small gestures, I know," Katie said. "But just to acknowledge the people who are serving is important."
Not long ago, Katie drove into Boston, to Back Bay, to get some more stickers. On her way back to her parking space on Newbury Street, she found two meter maids circling her car. She assumed the worst.
An expired meter is one thing, but for all she knew there might be an extra fine for covering your car with bumper stickers.
But the meter maids weren't there to tag the car. They were admiring the stickers.
One of the meter maids confided that she has two sons serving in Iraq and then turned toward Katie and asked, "Who do you have over there?"
"Everyone," Katie replied.
On that sidewalk, on that day, the meter maid melted into Katie Reilly's arms and they hugged and cried and laughed, and then dried each other's eyes.
Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.
Ellie