Then and now: remembering the dead, forging ahead

Bruce Stubbs took his son, Blake, to see his grandfather’s grave just about every year since he was a baby.

They lingered over the small grave that said, “Lt Navy Medical Corps Vietnam, ” in the small graveyard next to Grace Baptist Church, in the tiny town of Whitewater, “The tiny town with the big heart,” where Bruce’s father was buried.

Blake remembers “the old guys telling war stories” and thinking, “Wow they did more for their country in two years than most people do in their entire lives.”

One year an Eagle photographer snapped a photo of Bruce and Blake, with flags blowing in the background. Blake was only 2 then, the same age Bruce was when his dad left the military, and only a few years before he passed away.

“Dad, I want one of those flags,” Blake told his dad. Bruce explained that beneath each flag was buried a man who had once served in the military, like his own grandfather.

Bruce framed the photo that day and has kept it on his wall ever since.

They consider themselves a very patriotic family, Bruce said. Bruce bought his son an AR-15 and would take him shooting out on his family’s farm.

And yet, when Blake came to him his senior year of high school and said that he’s always wanted to join the Army, Bruce was taken aback. He was worried about sending his son off into a world that seemed so dangerous.

Bruce argued against enlisting. He even took Blake to talk to someone who had served in the military. It didn’t go as planned. His friend said Blake would be perfect for the military and talked about all the great things joining had done for him.

Blake’s plans became more concrete after he took an intelligence test and the recruitment officers said Blake did so well he could probably take on just about any job he wanted.

Still, Bruce wanted to make sure Blake had thought it through. They went to a Texas Roadhouse and Blake did everything but give his dad a Powerpoint presentation, he said.

“I knew he just didn’t want me to make a rash decision,” Blake said. “He’ll try on a shirt four times before he buys it. That’s just kind of how he is.”

Bruce was proud that his son had been listening to him all these years about making careful decisions. And once he saw how committed his son was to serving his country, and how thoughtful he’d been, he gave his full support. He took videos and photos at his son’s graduation from training in Kansas City a couple of years ago.

Blake has seen active duty and was promoted just before his four days vacation back at home: now he will be responsible for training a new recruit, despite being one of the youngest soldiers in his company.

After Taps played at the end of the ceremony Monday in Whitewater, an old war veteran came up to Blake and handed him three shell casings from the gun salute. Now Blake said he could chat with one of these old veterans, who he used to admire so much, and they could talk for hours because of their shared service.

Behind the tightly pressed caps of a few veterans of the Greatest Generation, behind a preacher who sang “God Bless America” as if he was in an opera house, and behind a young veteran who stood with his heels tightly together, his body stiff, his flag pole straight as if a four-star general were in attendance — an 18-month-old Alec Rutenbeck Jr., stumbled through the grass near his grandfather’s grave, as his father, Alec, bowed his head.

A camera lense clicked. And the veterans of American Legion Post 65 headed down the road to a cemetery in Potwin.

This story was originally published May 30, 2016 at 2:48 PM with the headline "Then and now: remembering the dead, forging ahead."