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Before I get to my story, let me tell you about the bright and shining purpose of this blog—on this day, this weekend, my blog is part of a “Blog Tour De Troops” blog hop. Home plate for the blog tour is the Indie Book Collective. You probably just “hopped” from Rachel Thompson's blog, and the next stop is Stacey Kennedy's blog.
Thing is, I have joined forces with dozens of other authors who are doing their part to give free books and Kindles to the troops—all you have to do is comment on this blog (be sure to include your email address) and you will receive a FREE e-book of my novel, “The Samaritan,” you will be entered to win a free Amazon Kindle, and better yet—these books and Kindles aren’t just free for you, they’re free for the troops as well.
Okay, so, now onto my story of gratitude on this Memorial Day weekend.
Memorial Day is a three-day weekend packed with folks planning barbecues and boat rides, full of images of sunshine and the unofficial start of summer. And you’ll see a few news pieces and some Facebook posts about the true nature of the holiday—the remembrance of those troops that have died in defense of our country.
I don’t need a special day to remember. There’s a boy I once knew, and I think of him often. Probably more often than I should; more often than anyone will ever realize. His name is Torrey, and I refer to him in the past tense because he is no longer with us.
We lived in a small town of about 600 people called Patoka. When I met Torrey, hell, he couldn’t have been any older than fourteen. I was five years older, just getting started in college. For a few months one summer, he was over at my house all the time (I had a younger sister—you do the math) and while I had often heard of his issues with behavior and grades in school, he always seemed bright and warm to me. He was sniffing around my sister and my big-brother duty was to dislike him, but I couldn’t. We would talk about music and wrestling. He was funny, engaging, and loved Insane Clown Posse.
There was also a period in Patoka where everyone, at the same time, seemed to want to box each other. A few car trunks (mine included) would have pairs of gloves and headgears and there would be unsanctioned matches in parking lots, lit by headlights, those lucky enough to not be fighting getting their entertainment while the young and stupid brawlers left with headaches and ringing ears.
The circumstances of the time Torrey and I boxed isn't important. Let’s just say I was upholding my duty as a brother, but, in almost playful fashion, I gave him a choice—we could box in my backyard or I could just give him a whipping. He chose to box, and we did. Torrey never threw a punch. After about thirty seconds, I was gassed and felt the wrongness of it, and let him be. We ate Doritos and watched television when it was over, sweaty and not saying a word, the silence meaning that the matter was settled.
Soon, I was back to college, and as teens are prone to do, he and my sister drifted apart. I never saw much of him after that, even after I graduated college, as I had moved out of Patoka by then.
In April 2004, Torrey died in Iraq. He died Lance Cpl. Torrey Stoffel Gray. I hardly recognized his picture in the paper. It was the picture of a man, not the boy I had known. I learned that whatever problems plagued him in his checkered past were far behind him, as he had enrolled in military school, finished his high school equivalency, and had become a Marine. They say the events of September 11, 2001, inspired him to this course of action. They say he had blossomed into a role model, a responsible young man who planned to propose to his long-time girlfriend upon his return.
He had pushed himself to the maximum of his potential, become a Marine, become a hero, a galvanizing force for his small community. And my lasting memory will be the time we had a boxing match in my backyard, a moment that sickens me with regret because even then, I knew the light he had inside of him. I would have wagered that he would overcome and defeat the problems he was going through, that he would change into the exact person he would change into. I knew this in my bones, but didn’t allow myself to believe it, not really, and still treated him badly that day.
And he didn’t punch back. As was his nature—he saved his action for when it was important. His non-action spoke volumes—he and I were both dumb young boys at the time, believing in some sort of goofy masculine code, one that he was honoring by never lifting a fist to me.
Even then, on that day, he was a soldier. And years later, as a writer, I have written stories and journal entries trying to discover the lessons learned that day, and maybe alleviate some of the guilt I feel. I’m still discovering lessons, still feeling guilt, but the one thing I know for sure after all these years is that our men and women aren’t just “troops,” they have names and families, hometowns and backgrounds, they call came from something, threads of America that bind tightly to unify us.
On Memorial Day and many others, I think of Torrey—he is my flashpoint to feel the sacrifices of all of our troops, and a reminder to thank them for their service and sacrifice.
Semper Fi, Torrey. And thank you . . . you are not forgotten.
