And this is how he lived for ten consecutive months of his life, when he was 21, when most American young men his age were in classrooms, roaming college campuses, going to movies, to Canada, to football games, rooting for the home team, protesting a war they had no understanding of whatsoever. That was 30 years ago. And for the most part, those years have been reasonably quiet. Today Dennis Kistler lives with his wife, son and daughter, in Stow, a town of 6,000 known for its apple orchards and golf courses. The town has a traffic light, a donut shop with a counter, a small airport where people fly their small private planes in for breakfast or lunch, a couple of pizza shops, a grocery store, a video rental store.
Town business is taken care of by open town meetings where the majority rules.
Dennis makes a living for himself and his family by managing a construction company, which he founded 20 years ago. In his spare time, Dennis plays jazz on an electric guitar he designed and built himself. Occasionally he plays local jazz concerts with fellow jazz musicians. But like thousands and thousands of Vietnam veterans, he has felt the dark cloud, the stigma, that hangs over them all. For 30 years, he's quietly endured the intensity of public and private attitudes that have ranged from callous indifference to blatant icy hostility.