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We were young, once.
I lived in a three story house, some 13 rooms, with an extended family of blood and blood brother friends. Breakfast sometimes meant oatmeal, chocolate and coffee. Usually the full course, though - eggs, sausage, potatoes, and a project for the day, the job. We looked to the future, literally and figuratively. We had a good life.
We expected the revolution to be televised.
As always, with a bunch of people living under one roof, things went wrong. Someone didn't do something, or worse, did something. When challenged, we, as a family, came up with an all purpose rejoinder that everyone appreciated - "I've got gum on my shoe."
Vietnam was raging it's way through American youth in those days. Nixon had a plan and assorted officials intoned the "good news" of pacification while we got the second hand news of someone coming home in a body bag. These were the waning days of the draft lottery. I had a low number. Though I had registered as a Conscientious Objector, in the back of my mind, I assumed another option to conscription - as both my brothers had taken - a political 4F via the well known Dr. Feel-good in Boston.
As luck would have it, the good doctor was rousted by the feds just before my lottery date. As luck would have it, my number came up.
The 6:45 train into Boston had an extra car the morning I took it into Boston's North Station. Looking back, now, I realize we were just scared kids. Among the regulars - the New York Times crossword and Wall Street Journal riders - we each sat at our window seat watching the grey of late autumn in New England run by.
I didn't know what to do.
You know what happens next. Line up, sign in, take a test, get undressed...
I didn't know what to do...so I did what I knew. "I've got gum on my shoe".
On sign in I wrote it in every blank. On the test I answered every question, "I've got gum on my shoe". They asked me aside for a little talk and I said, "You don't want me, I've got gum on my shoe". I didn't know what to do, but I meant it.
They stamped all my paperwork as administratively passed and moved me on to the physical.
The line of skinny, skivvy clad kids wound through a cold Navy Yard gymnasium. Turn your head and cough. Read line number three. Height, check. Weight, check.
Finally, there was the last doc, white coat, MD badge. He looked me straight in the eyes - and I'll never forget it - said, "It's OK. You don't have to go."
The regulars were all on the train home that afternoon. But most of the kids I rode in with weren't. I know for a fact some of them never came back. I think about them often.
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