Car Wreck

I saw a friend at the Y today and asked how was he doing.

 

"Well, I was in a car wreck last week; we were stopped at a light on Academy Boulevard, and a  woman, going fifty, rear-ended us."

 

"Wow, you get hurt?"

 

"No, we were really lucky; the car was totaled. The insurance company bought us a new one."

 

"How about the crazy woman who ran in to you?"

 

"She wasn't hurt. She was on the way to the funeral of her daughter, who had been killed in a car wreck the week before."

Breakfast Partner

Daylight is just appearing as I park in McDonalds empty parking lot; it will be quiet while I enjoy four-bit coffee and the paper. I am surprised to see a guy standing by the counter as I walk in. He has shoulder-length hair covered with a watch cap and is dressed with war-surplus togs. A long strip of cellophane tape covers the top of his eyeglass frames to secure his lenses. He hasn't ordered an...ything.

I get my coffee and walk way back to the corner. He follows me. "Great," I tell myself. I sit down, open the paper and start reading, giving him no eye contact.

He starts talking about the time that he and his friend Mike climbed up Barr trail, which is 13 miles long and goes to the top of 14,110 foot Pikes Peak. He says that they made it up to Barr Camp which is at around 10,000 feet.

"Yep, we smoked some weed there and then couldn't go any higher. Then we took some acid and couldn't get down. It was a long day."

With exaggeration, I say, "Hey, man, I'm not interested in talking to some acid head."

"Hey, man, I haven't done no drugs for twenty years. Hey, man, like man, you got some money so I can, like, get breakfast?"
********
So, what should I have done? Given him one to ten bucks; given him none; or let him stay in our guest bedroom for the week?

A Crepe-Paper Poppy

I read an editorial today about a campaign to bring back the poppy as a remembrance of those who have made the ultimate sacrifice in defense of America.

Every Memorial day in the fifties, I remember buying a red crepe-paper poppy from the VFW or the American Legion for twenty-five cents and then wearing it at the cemetery ceremonies--attended by most of the town.

The ceremonies included the reading of John McCrae's poem of the horrific WWI carnage at Ypres: "In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row...." Concluding with the serious charge: "To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields."

I still hear the sounds of silence, sobs and the shedding of teardrops. Most had lost a close relative or friend in the big war.

I do want to find or make a red poppy to proudly wear tomorrow.

Graduation

The Thunderbirds just roared over our house as they practice for their iconic fly-over of the Air Force Academy graduation tomorrow, when they at precisely the right second--just as the graduates have been commissioned as Air Force officers by the President of the United States and throw their hats high in the air--will appear trailing smoke for a deafening second or so, creating a frozen-in time front page picture of cheering cadets, a thousand floating hats and six F-16C's in perfect formation.

A Conversation

At the restaurant this morning, I said hello to Donice, my octogenarian friend, whose husband of sixty years, Melvin, died nine months ago. I asked her how she was doing.

"Oh, okay, someday I hope l will see Melvin here at breakfast; I have a lot to talk to him about."

"What's that?"

"Politics."