For parents, the war never really ends.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

Whenever I see another one of those "Oregon-soldier-killed-in-Iraq" headlines, I think of J.C. and Mabel Ownbey: Two people for whom the war headlines came 34 years ago, but who remind us that if time heals wounds, it doesn't bring back sons.

"You see a kid on the news, being honored for giving his life, and you think: He's the same age as Tim," says J.C., now 78. "You think: How many people loved that kid? How many people don't know that they're going to hurt forever?"

I met J.C. and Mabel Ownbey in 1996 because I was writing a story about their son, Tim, a Thurston High graduate who died in 1970 when he stepped on a land mine in Vietnam. He was 20.

I revisited them on Tuesday because war's bottom line - people dying and families grieving - sometimes gets lost in the political smoke. And, unlike those who have only recently lost loved ones in Iraq, the Ownbeys have lived a virtual lifetime of loss and, thus, have an unenviable broad perspective on the lingering effects of war.

"Every time you snap the TV on and there's anything to do with Iraq - the controversy over the coffins - I'm right back there," says Mabel, 77. "When Tim came home, we saw his coffin at the airport. You can't sweep it under some rug. It's always there."

The Ownbeys, of Springfield, live in a house with an "Our Troops/Our Heroes" sticker on the front door and two American flags flying outside. And more than a dozen pictures of Tim displayed inside.

"A lot of people think we should put the pictures of him in the trunk, but I want to see him smiling," Mabel says. "I want to see him walking into that airport after he was coming home from Fort Knox, holding on to that ugly doll for me with the `I love you this much!' sign. I want to see him on the ball field or at church, as a kid, letting the crickets out during Pastor Barnes' sermon. That was our Timmer."

"Every day you see the pictures on the wall," J.C. says, "you wonder: What would he be like now?"

A few months before Tim's yearlong hitch was up, J.C. had a premonition of danger. "I remember wanting to go to Vietnam and bring my son home. Just say, `That's my son and I've come to get him.' '

Tim was eager to come home, reunite with girlfriend Debby and become partners in J.C.'s construction business. "Hi Daddy and Mommy," he wrote. "Bless my home and all the people in it."

Two weeks later, the government car pulled up in front. After the news of Tim's death, Mabel refused to eat and lost 50 pounds. Once, she was found wandering along the McKenzie River, oblivious to where she was. The Ownbeys withdrew from friends, family, their church.

They still cling to their Christian faith and believe Tim is in heaven, still cling to each other. They aren't recluses, aren't bitter. But they aren't the two people they were before Oct. 25, 1970.

"We've had two lives - one `before Tim,' one after," Mabel says. "I used to have this bubbly laugh. Now, it's just not there."

The war in Iraq triggered something deep in J.C., a World War II vet. Tired of nightmares, he started seeing a counselor, who tells J.C. he's still grieving for his lost son.

You move on, the Ownbeys say, but not completely. You see an airplane take off and it's the one taking Tim away - for good. You drive by Fins Drive-In and Tim is inside, woofing down a cheeseburger at what was then an A&W. You drive by a softball game and Tim is up to bat and teammates Dad and brother Tony are on base.

"It's like you've got this hole in your heart," J.C. says. "Everywhere you go, you just feel like you're missing something. Tim was just a lovable kid."

All of which suggests that, whatever you think of John Kerry, it's hard to argue with his statement that "I will not go to war unless I can look at the parents of the soldier straight in the eye and say, `I had no other choice.' '

Because, as the Ownbeys suggest, "no-other-choice" means some people will hurt forever.