I met one of my contemporaries this week. Well, we really didn’t meet. We never have. I ran across Mark Eklund while visiting a website named TruthBook.com. But now, I feel I know him well.
We were born within six months of each other in 1951. As such, I imagine as youngsters we likely did many of the same things such as playing Cowboys and Indians or War with our other neighborhood buddies. We likely both built forts and treehouses and watched television shows like Captain Kangaroo, The Lawman, Combat, and The Cisco Kid. Perhaps, when he got to high school, Mark played on his high school football team as I did or had a crush on a special girl and dreamed about getting married to her someday and having kids of his own. But, from the point of having common high school dreams, I am certain that there were no other common paths that Mark and I subsequently shared.
I did marry that special girl that I had a high school crush on. We have built a wonderful life together. We had children and witnessed their growth to adulthood. Today, we are both in our late sixties and are enjoying the fruits of our life efforts, especially the joy that we reap daily through watching our grandchildren grow.
While I didn’t personally know Mark, I do know this about him…he never enjoyed anything beyond his 20th year. He died in combat in Viet Nam in 1971.
Most of what I learned about Mark this week, I discovered in an inspiring essay written about him by one of his elementary school teachers, Sister Helen P. Mirosla.
I do wish I could have known him better. But, regardless, I now consider him a friend…a very good friend. And now, I invite you to meet Mark too. After hearing about him from Sister Helen’s perspective, I think you’ll like him too:
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary’s School in Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million.
Very neat in appearance, he had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful. Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving – “Thank you for correcting me, Sister!”
I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice teacher’s mistake. I looked at Mark and said, “If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!”
It wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck (Mark’s friend) blurted out, “Mark is talking again!”
I hadn’t asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark’s desk, removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders.
His first words were, “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.”
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The year flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my instruction in the “new math,” he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in third.
One Friday, things just didn’t feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. “Really?” I heard whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to anyone!” “I didn’t know others liked me so much.”
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again. That group of students moved on.
Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip – the weather, my experiences in general. There was a lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply said, “Dad?” My father cleared his throat as he usually did before something important. “The Eklund’s called last night,” he began. “Really?” I said. “I haven’t heard from them in years. I wonder how Mark is.” Dad responded quietly. “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend.”
To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark. I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, “Mark I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.”
The church was packed with Mark’s friends. Chuck’s sister sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to me. “Were you Mark’s math teacher?” he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. “Mark talked about you a lot.” he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. “We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.”
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him.
“Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.” Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at home.”
Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album.” “I have mine too,” Marilyn said. “It’s in my diary.”
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group.
“I carry this with me at all times,” Vicki said without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved our lists.”
That’s when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don’t know when that day will be.
So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And left us dreaming how very fair
It’s needs must be, since he lingers there.
And you—oh you, who the wildest yearn
For an old-time step, and the glad return,
Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here.
Think of him still as the same. I say,
He is not dead—he is just away.
― James Whitcomb Riley
NOTE: U.S. Army PFC MARK JAMES EKLUND is honored on Panel 3W, Row 124 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C. He was born on June 8, 1951 and was killed in action in Thua Thien Province, Viet Nam on August 6, 1971. If you are ever in D.C. and visit the Viet Nam Memorial, stop by Mark’s panel and let him know that we will never forget him and that he remains a special and important friend to us all. It’s really not too late.
Have an AWE-full weekend and please know how special and important you are to me!
William “Bill” Bacque