photograph courtesy sam antonio / dreamstime
Dear Vance: Is it true that the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., was actually crafted here in Memphis? — T.H., Memphis.
Dear T.H.: The black granite for the famous memorial came from India and was cut into slabs in Vermont. After all, we have no stone quarries here. But more than 58,000 names of men and women killed during the conflict or listed as missing in action were indeed carved on those stones by a Memphis company, Glasscraft, a division of Binswanger Glass. The massive panels were trucked here, where the names were etched, a laborious seven-month process. The finished pieces were transported to the nation’s capital, where they form the most impressive — and emotional — part of the memorial.
The fact that so few people know about Memphis’ role in one of the most famous — and yes, controversial — works of public art in the world never fails to amaze me. But the work here wasn’t publicized at the time. After the memorial opened to the public on Veterans Day in 1982, The Commercial Appeal quoted company general manager Richard Binswanger, who said, “It was an honor to win the job, and we didn’t feel it was something to brag about.” The task was a somber one, after all.
photograph courtesy gerald zaffuts / dreamstime
A U.S. Army corporal from Bowie, Maryland, gets credit for creating the memorial. Jan Scruggs had served two tours of duty with an infantry division, where he survived a mortar attack, saw many of his comrades killed or seriously wounded, and came home with a Purple Heart and official commendations for bravery. Seeing the 1978 movie The Deer Hunter, about Vietnam veterans recalling their horrific experiences during the war, inspired him to create a memorial, so his fellow soldiers — the ones who didn’t come back — would never be forgotten.
In 1979, Scruggs formed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, and quickly faced challenges from all sides. Many Americans were troubled by the war; they didn’t understand why the U.S. got involved, while others were dismayed at the outcome: Why erect a monument to a war we didn’t win? Scruggs pressed forward, though, determined to build a memorial that would be more than an impressive statue, but would incorporate the names of those lost during the conflict.
His efforts met with resistance, if not outright ridicule. One night, Roger Mudd, a national TV newscaster, mocked the fundraising efforts of Scruggs’ group, noting that several months after its founding, they had raised precisely $142.50. This news story actually invigorated supporters, who began to contribute $5 and $10 — whatever they had — and a radiothon fundraiser in Washington, D.C., drew more than $100,000. Important politicians like H. Ross Perot and others came aboard, with moral and financial support.
“At the time, we knew we were working on a very important project. But nobody had an inkling of the impact it would have on so many people. For everyone involved in creating the memorial, and the visitors who go there, it’s a life-changing experience.” — Candyce Loescher
Meanwhile, Scruggs and others on the board of the Memorial Fund waded through the red tape of the government organizations who would approve — and oversee the construction of — the monument, including the Department of Defense, Department of the Interior, and the National Park Service.
At some point, the board decided to drum up support for the memorial with a national design competition. They were surprised to receive more than 1,400 entries, the winner to be decided by a jury. After months of deliberation, the jury selected a stark, meditative design by Maya Lin, a 21-year-old Asian-American artist attending Yale University. Instead of a soaring obelisk or imposing sculpture — a common theme of the other presentations — Lin’s concept featured a chevron carved into the National Mall. One side would be open; the other would be lined with 144 polished black granite slabs, some of them more than 10 feet tall, bearing the neatly carved names of those who had sacrificed their lives in the war. Only their names were included; there would be no mention of their rank, branch of service, or biographical details.
Critics called Lin’s design a “black gash of shame and sorrow.” Reacting to those who found the concept depressing, she told reporters, “I imagined taking a knife and cutting into the earth, opening it up, and with the passage of time, that initial violence and pain would heal.”
Eventually, a compromise was reached, with a bronze sculpture designed by Washington, D.C., artist Frederick Hart called The Three Soldiers placed nearby in 1984. A separate monument, designed by New Mexico sculptor Glenna Goodacre and honoring the women who served (and died) in Vietnam, was unveiled in 1993.
photograph courtesy vacclac / dreamstime
Work began on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 1982. The granite was quarried in Bangalore, India, and shipped to Barre, Vermont — the home of master stonecutters — where they were sliced into 144 slabs. Meanwhile, Scruggs’ group worked with the Department of Veterans Affairs to compile the names of everyone they wanted to include on the monument. This was a massive undertaking. The information had to be correct; there was no opportunity to correct a misspelled name after it had been carved into stone.
Another fight began over how, exactly, to arrange the names, but the group finally decided to list them chronologically, by the dates of their deaths or disappearance, instead of alphabetically.
So, how did Binswanger — a Memphis company who specialized in home, auto, and “decorative” glass — come to be involved in a project that would seemingly be a better fit for monument and tombstone companies? Candyce Loescher, who was supervisor of specialty products at Binswanger, received a phone call one day in 1982, and a young man asked if Binswanger could “photographically etch” a person’s name into stone. Thinking he meant a simple gravestone, Loescher recommended other companies for this work. “But he kept calling back,” she says today, “and I finally asked just how many names he was talking about. When he said more than 58,000, things definitely got interesting.” Binswanger bid on the project “knowing other companies around the country were playing the same game,” says Loescher, “but we won the contract.”
Work began here in April 1982, in the Glasscraft facility at 1373 Farmville, a large building off Jackson Avenue without air conditioning. “It was the hottest summer I can remember,” says Loescher. “In fact, one of my jobs was bringing ice packs to the 15 or 20 people working on the memorial.”
Years later, in 1988, Hollywood released a feature film, To Heal a Nation, about the creation of the memorial. In one powerful scene set in Memphis, a young woman is inspecting a slab when she comes across the name of her “baby brother” and bursts into tears. “Oh, so much of that movie was wrong,” says Loescher. “That women volunteered to help because she already knew her brother’s name would be there, and I think she did find it, but then left the very next day.”
The letters weren’t chiseled by hand. Instead, once they compiled all the names, the Memorial Fund sent the list to an Atlanta firm, Datalantic, who prepared typeset sheets of names. In Memphis, these sheets were used to create stencils — the process is far more complicated than I can explain here — and special sandblasting tools were then used to etch the names into each stone.
“The list of names arrived late, and the stones arrived late,” says Loescher. “We finished the project in October, and they were shipped to Washington. The memorial was completed just in time for its opening on Veterans Day of 1982.”
All those names lined a concrete walkway where visitors could search for the names of their loved ones; a directory showed where each name could be found. What happened next was unexpected. People began to leave tributes — flowers, letters, and other mementos (even teddy bears) — along the wall. Others brought paper, and with pencil or charcoal, made rubbings of names. The monument, in its own way, became an interactive exhibit.
Loescher stayed with Binswanger for several more years. Then she and her husband, Warren, who also worked on the memorial, left Memphis and traveled around the country before she decided to attend a seminary. In 2016, she became rector of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Louisville, Kentucky, retiring from that position this September.
“I want to say this about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial,” Loescher says. “At the time, we knew we were working on a very important project. But nobody had an inkling of the impact it would have on so many people. For everyone involved in creating the memorial, and the visitors who go there, it’s a life-changing experience.”
It’s a shame that so few Memphians know about our city’s vital contribution to this monument, honoring those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country.
But you know about it now.
Got a question for Vance?
Email: askvance@memphismagazine.com
Mail: Vance Lauderdale, Memphis Magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38101
Online: memphismagazine.com/ask-vance
