Diaries;
Forward:
My uncle was a soldier who most
remembered his battle on, Iwo-Jima. His
many tattoos with illustrations detailing parts of naked women and knives used
for killing, covered his body, from neck to toe. Mostly, I remember him as a, Railroad Man;
the break-man on a caboose. We always
knew when he was working. He pulled the
whistle when he’d cross the overpass, enroute to his home. We lived just a stone throw from the
bridge. It was an exciting day, once in
a while, when he’d stop by; bringing ice-cream, enroute to visit my dad. There was cold beer in the
refrigerator. They’d sit around the
kitchen table. We had a wooden rocking-chair
– Mother’s favorite -- with a padded quilted cushioned seat, homemade. Uncle would choose the rocker. Dad would quietly lite his pipe, while his
brother sipped, and they’d talk. Dad was
a good listener. I liked listening in,
sitting quietly behind my uncle, who’d be rocking while they spoke. Next to Dad, I thought of him as,
Godly. He was a man full of energy who
enjoyed escargot sandwiches, lathered with horse radish preserves -- something
hotter than I could handle, and only a hero enjoyed.
To understand my uncle, you’d have
to comprehend what, Great Depression is like in small towns, where suffering is
exacerbated by communities of unemployment.
There was food, but no money to buy it with. People were poaching deer. My uncle was only seventeen when he
enlisted. Why would anyone want
war? He didn’t either; but it was there,
and there was food on soldier’s plates.
By the time they realized his real
age, he was on front lines and, hand-to-hand combat. You couldn’t have found him if you
wanted. One can only imagine that experience, having
been there. Nobody wants to be in
front. Everybody dies. The beach got littered with about,
seven-thousand bodies, and fifty-thousand, American Casualties; killing
twenty-two thousand, Japanese who were surrounded, in the battle to control an
island shaped like a pork chop, unable to surrender their pride and willingly
dying. Nobody talked about that. Mostly they talked about fishing.
After sipping beer and talking;
after lunch, Dad would drive my uncle downtown to visit my aunt, and another
uncle, with a family. They’d stop for a six-pack
or two of beer to bring along. It would be late afternoon and the evening young.
There’d be lots to talk about and they could each celebrate their survival,
while the summer sun waned. And they
toasted into the evening, until the train whistled from a mile away; and you
could hear iron wheels screeching on the tracks, watch sparks flying, and the
train stopped just before the trestle, picking up and taking Uncle to his
family.
My favorite memories were mostly
spent in a field that separated civilization and wilderness. We were landlocked by a river on the
backside; which was bordered by a grove of trees on the north side of the
parcel, and a wide brook with huge banking’s to the east side. Railroads, Grand Trunk and B&M defined
south and west sections of my father’s land.
Our house original was built during
the eighteen hundreds. That was an era
when it benefited people to have barns and homes near streets and narrow dirt
roads. Electricity was an
afterthought. It was a slat board
construction; as I recollect handling many of the boards. I was less interested in construction; being
more suited and coordinated for demolition.
I particularly remember the nails holding white glass insulators; some
still with springy wire, tuned to wrap around them. It was a difficult skill, to master home dismemberment
at pre-school age. That was the year I
should have gone to, Kindergarten. That
was for, Sissies.
One might wonder what splendor a
field has to offer children. Several
acres of land can house a city block; or community housing development. It could also be a corn, tomato or potato
field; those surroundings serving with patches of cultivations and various
berries and cherries’ spring and summer aromas; surrounded by a panorama of
mountains enclosing completely, everything.
Looking up into mountains is
breath-taking; especially in winter when cold air bites into lungs, making
noses run. Fresh mountain valley air is
something few privileged people may ever experience; rigid shadows cast images
and colors during the day; relating to time spent, along with spectacular
clouds in season.
Fields change in time, but for
children growing up, that seems forever.
There is a distinct separation between children and adults, neither side
comprehending the other. The children
looking at elders in bewilderment and awe, wondering how long it takes to be,
old; while their little years in time, make it seem forever. Adults looking back, will wonder where time
went. Put a child in a field, and they
can see what no adult can. They can
witness subtle changes of the fields, while shrubs and branches get cut for
firewood, and later burn piles; or watch roads being built, separating land and
its inhabitants from what it knew before that time of progression.
Mostly, I remember the field for
immensity, and changing times. Each season
different than previous. The fields
intensified feelings and bewilderment that only comes from living in
country. The most memorable vision, was
the year round seven that highlighted itself during spring and summer. It was a glacial snow formation known as,
Icy Gulch. The mountains were
snowcapped, most of the year. Huge
volumes of melting spring water channeled into fresh water streams, following
hills down as far as the ocean; while others deposited into lakes. With melting, mountain water and receding
snowcaps revealed the seven’s posterity, and my burgeoning curiosity and
maturity. The seven was a natural
phenomenon, just as the stone fish and other formations representing faces,
forms and mythical figures, in that location.
Mountain shadows rolled across the
field, along with the changes of weather, and the shapes of evolution
unfolding. It would appear to be
mundane, if not for nature’s severity.
For adults too busy with life, there is too little time to dwell or dote
on a few acres of land. But to a child’s
eyes, each color and tone, clearly illustrates something new and exciting. There is bewilderment. Child life escapes adult’s lives; too caught
up in survival or work. They plant
fields while you watch; driving tractors, tilling and tinning. And you wish you could help, planting seeds
and bushes of future harvests. Time
seems too slow; but it is ephemeral, changing quickly, intensely, and in
moments.
To understand Iwo Jima battle,
you’d have to be there. Nobody could
describe with such validity; vivid features of the crying souls who were dying
without a prayer. But the people who
lived never wished to talk about it.
Nobody can understand being tired and marched along a trail of death, or
fighting like, Hell, to survive, while everybody else is dying, unless you
realize your own inferno. Nobody wants
to talk about a vision too horrible to describe, and everybody wants to forget. They were young men who grew up too quickly
to experience any other life. They all
had uniforms tucked in cases, unworn and forgotten; while the memories lasted
forever. Most of them died. Others
drank. My father listened.
