VFW
by Boyd Bauman

Mom cuts the Chrysler’s engine,
examines her watch and bids me enter the classified door
before methodically reaching into the back seat
to retrieve her soft-sided bag of crochet work,
hook frozen in mid-stitch at the end of a blue chain.
Multicolored afghans folded over rocking chairs, couches,
beds in every room of a three-story farmhouse
bear witness to the craft of patience
inherent in 30 years of marriage.

My father rides high on a barstool
commanding attention from the troops,
several 7 and 7s lubricating a boisterous introduction:
This is my boy! This is son #2!
Shunned by Uncle Sam after failing his physical in ’42,
informed he’d see neither action nor the age of 50,
he’d volunteered decades later,
auctioning items to pay for repairs
after fire ravaged this veterans’ bar,
was granted honorary membership for dedicated service.

He appears at peace in these details,
on weekend leave in this well-crafted postscript
to a novel never written,
this celebration and commiseration in the company of men,
retelling corny jokes worn stale on the home front,
recounting early hardships to his captivated recruits,
his authority on days of draught and depression on the family farm,
chronicles of brothers stretching out on cots under the stars,
sweating through electricity rations on sultry August nights.

And now I’ve come to end this tour,
to tug him by the course fabric
of his self-issued uniform of Osh Kosh overalls
back to me and Mom and the familiar soil of his father’s farm
but not before he takes the wheel and the long, meandering route
circumnavigating the section of land he’s fought all these years to preserve.
Regret and reprieve span the distance from 1-A to 4-F,
as he narrates one final report of youthful courage
falling on the deaf ears of his youngest charge
retreating rapidly into the freedom of backseat slumber.


 

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