Special Delivery - Relocated for Memorial Day

Posted by Pinhole at 5/24/2009 8:20 AM
Categories: WAR, Humor, Transitions, Tribute, Holiday, Thoughts
Tags: Tribute Humor Holiday

Years ago, never mind how many, in small town Midwestern America, everything was closed for business on Sunday, except church.  I could never understand why, if god wanted me to rest on the Sabbath, I was spending so much time struggling with a Windsor knot and looking for my other dress shoe.  A paradox I still wrestle with, periodically, if I feel a need to exercise.  When I questioned my father about this dilemma, always the philosopher, he responded, “Keep quiet…and find that shoe.”

Besides the abundance of places to worship, my hometown also boasted the only movie theater in the entire county, and aside from listening to Mr. Frye snoring in the back pew, going to the show provided the only form of entertainment on a Sunday evening.

My older brother sold popcorn at this establishment and most Sundays my folks and I would climb in the old Oldsmobile, park on a usually deserted Main Street in front of the theater and wait for him to get off work.  I must mention here, that everything in my hometown was within walking distance of everything else.  We walked to school, walked to the park, walked to the ball diamond…but, apparently, my parents felt Professional Popcorn Popping was such an exhausting occupation that my brother would, undoubtedly, need a ride home.  My family not being big on idle conversation, while waiting I was usually left alone in the backseat with my thoughts.  And, most times, it still seemed fairly crowded.

One particular Sunday evening, as we waited on a barren Main Street, a Greyhound pulled up in front of the Rexall Drug Store at the end of the block.  The three of us watched as a frail middle-aged gentleman stepped off the bus, adjusted the sleeve of a paper thin grayish sweater that had once, maybe, been yellow, set a cardboard suitcase beside his feet, and stared vacantly out into the darkness.  He had a head of prematurely gray hair that obviously, quite recently, had considered mutiny, but was too disorganized to accomplish the task.

As my father approached the man to see if he needed assistance, all I remember thinking is that I no longer had to wonder where scarecrows went for vacation.  Dad appeared to be doing all of the talking with an occasional nod from the soulless husk standing next to him.  Within a few moments the man and his satchel had joined my thoughts and me in the backseat of the car as we drove toward the nursing home at the edge of town.

From my flurry of questions on our way back to pick up my brother, the only thing I could get out of Dad, a veteran of the second war to end all wars, was “Shell shock”.  The man from the bus was one of the fortunate survivors of a terrible conflict who had returned with all of his limbs; but a vital part of him had been left shuddering in a damp bunker in some far-off land.

In 2009 we have more sophisticated terms for this malady and, hopefully, more sophisticated and efficient treatments.  But that night after everyone was asleep, I recall lying under the covers, crying, and for the life of me, I didn’t have the faintest idea of how to explain why.






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