I was watching dogs today. Sitting at an outdoor cafe, I watched as pairs of dogs on leashes would "meet" each other in the street. Owners would let the dogs sniff and circle each other, give them a moment to "socialize", and then pull on the leash to signal that it was time to move on.
Some dogs liked each other. They would sniff and maybe playfully jump in the air. No barking or yapping. Just sort of scoping the other dog out. When it was time to leave, they would leave, but not without giving a parting glance.
Other pairs of dogs were fucking Satanic drenched-in-blood-and-brimstone enemies, spewing visceral growls of contempt, flashing fangs of fury, thirsty for gore, held back from mauling their nemesis into a wet pulp only by the thin rope tether connecting them to their masters. Those leashes saved doggy lives, be assured.
Maybe the same goes for people, in a kind of more "civilized" way.
I've always believed that sometimes there is an attraction between two humans that goes beyond looks, fashion, intellect, humor, and common interests. It's a primal lust, a magnetic attraction that is unexplainable and unimaginable until experienced. Let two strangers with this attraction pass on the street, and sparks will fly. It's only happened to me a handful of times. But it happens!
On the other hand, there are times when I just plainly dislike somebody from the moment I meet them. Nothing they have said offends me, nothing that they have done is disagreeable. I just don't like them-- straight off. Again, it is rare. But it has happened.
In a way, perhaps we are similar to dogs, in that respect. I don't know. It could be an evolutionary advantage to recognize immediately, without reason or thought, an attraction to some distinct other individual in a crowd. There would be no fighting, no struggle for supremacy against other males (in my case). Just a mutual, unfathomable attraction. Maybe they make good babies. Maybe they simply have great sex, which will lead to many babies, which will lead to passing on those individuals' genes. I don't know. Just a thought.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Ronkonkoma Blues
I am sitting at the Ronkonkoma train station. It is a hot day and the heat only makes the commanding silence all the more audible. Men loaf about, cracking their knuckles while leaning back on worn benches. There is nothing to do but wait. No amount of technology can make their friends arrive faster. They have to wait. Waiting is a very un-21st century thing. Then again, so are trains.
Fearless little birdies hop hop from spot to spot like playful schoolchildren. Tempting fate, they inch closer and closer to my shoe searching in cracks for crumbs. They remind me of when I was in Spain, and the birdies, "los pajaritos", were courageous enough to come right up to my plate to steal food. "Los pajaritos no tienen miedo", I said to an old couple who were also admiring the little critters. We went back to our meals. Later, the old couple got up to leave the cafe and got not more than a few strides away when the old man stuttered, turned around, and gave a smiling "Buenos tardes" to me. I returned the parting comment, and continued sipping my vermouth and nibbling on my Tortilla Espanola, smiling the whole time. I made sure to leave some tortilla for the pajaritos.
Cicadas buzz about, fighting valiantly against an invisible-- and unfelt-- breeze. A roadside weed, with brilliant little purple flowers, latchs on to some passing refuse, refusing to release the dirty plastic bag from its barbarous grip.
An old Hispanic woman sips from a Big Gulp (I didn't know that they still sell Big Gulps; I didn't think people still bought Big Gulps). The old woman is smoking a cigarette that looks longer than it actually is due to the way she holds it, pincered between her two gaunt and bony fingers-- all knuckles sheathed in a leathery thin skin. I can see the arthritis. The cigarettes are cheap, and they release a heavy dirty smoke. The smoke smells like an ashtray.
Fearless little birdies hop hop from spot to spot like playful schoolchildren. Tempting fate, they inch closer and closer to my shoe searching in cracks for crumbs. They remind me of when I was in Spain, and the birdies, "los pajaritos", were courageous enough to come right up to my plate to steal food. "Los pajaritos no tienen miedo", I said to an old couple who were also admiring the little critters. We went back to our meals. Later, the old couple got up to leave the cafe and got not more than a few strides away when the old man stuttered, turned around, and gave a smiling "Buenos tardes" to me. I returned the parting comment, and continued sipping my vermouth and nibbling on my Tortilla Espanola, smiling the whole time. I made sure to leave some tortilla for the pajaritos.
Cicadas buzz about, fighting valiantly against an invisible-- and unfelt-- breeze. A roadside weed, with brilliant little purple flowers, latchs on to some passing refuse, refusing to release the dirty plastic bag from its barbarous grip.
An old Hispanic woman sips from a Big Gulp (I didn't know that they still sell Big Gulps; I didn't think people still bought Big Gulps). The old woman is smoking a cigarette that looks longer than it actually is due to the way she holds it, pincered between her two gaunt and bony fingers-- all knuckles sheathed in a leathery thin skin. I can see the arthritis. The cigarettes are cheap, and they release a heavy dirty smoke. The smoke smells like an ashtray.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Letters and Symbols
I am currently reading David McCullough's biography of John Adams, and a few things have struck me thus far:
First, reading this book and especially the passages that McCollough quotes from Adams's letters, reminds me how much I love classical correspondence. The art of the letter is mostly lost today, as the letter has been outclassed by so many technological achievements: the email, the photograph, the recording device, the telephone, the therapist. Whenever I had to do my own research, on Lafayette for example, I always enjoyed the physical descriptions that authors often inserted in their correspondence. Phrases like "Aquiline nose" and "a sharp chin" had connotations that modern audiences can't quite appreciate. We see somebody with a sharp chin, but don't label it as such. We actually "see" the chin, whereas hearing about a chin in a letter calls much more attention to it. Viewing a photograph, we would note the chin, but not highlight it. If John Adams had to describe someone, say, myself, in a letter to Abagail, it might look something like this:
"A strange gentleman stumbled onto the streets from the City Tavern yesterday evening, dearest Abagail. His name is Matthew Reed. Travelling from Brooklyn, New York, he is tall and slender, with oriental eyes and a broad nose. Nearly always unshaven and preferring to wear his hair in the vertical style, Mr. Reed's origins are not immediately recognizable. He has an enthusiasm and curiosity for many ventures, most notably, the City Tavern. A strange fellow indeed."
The other thing that I am currently thinking about is symbols of power. The King, George III, had a crown (as is fashionable among monarchs). The crown was a symbol of power. People refer to "The Crown" as if power-- and responsibility-- resides not within a person, but within a heavy hoop of metal. The Crown provides security and comforts, but is also to be blamed for corruption and terror.
Statesman, on the whole, don't wear crowns anymore (except the Pope-- and yes, that is a criticism [and yes, I know, it's not a crown, but a Papal Tiara. Like he's a fairy princess or something]). That leaves the question, what is the modern crown? What comfortable yet intimidating symbol acts as the buffer between people and those who hold authority?
1. The podium. Whenever somebody steps up to a podium to speak, chances are they are important. If we can see camera flashes as the person approaches the podium, they are definitely important.
2. The White House. The actual building and the phrase. "The White House released a statement today..." Oh really? Did it now? "I need paint." Or, "I don't like the snipers on my roof."
3. The Brass. A military uniform. The epaulets, the service bars, the medals, the name tag, the backwards American flag on the right sleeve. Read my past post on name tags entitled "Name Tags, Legit or Shit."
4. The limousine. Executives, government officials, drunk 16 year olds. All important, depending on your perspective.
5. The American flag? Symoblic. Powerful. Feared, to a degree.
None of these quite capture the degree of seperatness and authority that something like The Crown represents. I imagine it's just another reason why democracy kicks ass.
First, reading this book and especially the passages that McCollough quotes from Adams's letters, reminds me how much I love classical correspondence. The art of the letter is mostly lost today, as the letter has been outclassed by so many technological achievements: the email, the photograph, the recording device, the telephone, the therapist. Whenever I had to do my own research, on Lafayette for example, I always enjoyed the physical descriptions that authors often inserted in their correspondence. Phrases like "Aquiline nose" and "a sharp chin" had connotations that modern audiences can't quite appreciate. We see somebody with a sharp chin, but don't label it as such. We actually "see" the chin, whereas hearing about a chin in a letter calls much more attention to it. Viewing a photograph, we would note the chin, but not highlight it. If John Adams had to describe someone, say, myself, in a letter to Abagail, it might look something like this:
"A strange gentleman stumbled onto the streets from the City Tavern yesterday evening, dearest Abagail. His name is Matthew Reed. Travelling from Brooklyn, New York, he is tall and slender, with oriental eyes and a broad nose. Nearly always unshaven and preferring to wear his hair in the vertical style, Mr. Reed's origins are not immediately recognizable. He has an enthusiasm and curiosity for many ventures, most notably, the City Tavern. A strange fellow indeed."
The other thing that I am currently thinking about is symbols of power. The King, George III, had a crown (as is fashionable among monarchs). The crown was a symbol of power. People refer to "The Crown" as if power-- and responsibility-- resides not within a person, but within a heavy hoop of metal. The Crown provides security and comforts, but is also to be blamed for corruption and terror.
Statesman, on the whole, don't wear crowns anymore (except the Pope-- and yes, that is a criticism [and yes, I know, it's not a crown, but a Papal Tiara. Like he's a fairy princess or something]). That leaves the question, what is the modern crown? What comfortable yet intimidating symbol acts as the buffer between people and those who hold authority?
1. The podium. Whenever somebody steps up to a podium to speak, chances are they are important. If we can see camera flashes as the person approaches the podium, they are definitely important.
2. The White House. The actual building and the phrase. "The White House released a statement today..." Oh really? Did it now? "I need paint." Or, "I don't like the snipers on my roof."
3. The Brass. A military uniform. The epaulets, the service bars, the medals, the name tag, the backwards American flag on the right sleeve. Read my past post on name tags entitled "Name Tags, Legit or Shit."
4. The limousine. Executives, government officials, drunk 16 year olds. All important, depending on your perspective.
5. The American flag? Symoblic. Powerful. Feared, to a degree.
None of these quite capture the degree of seperatness and authority that something like The Crown represents. I imagine it's just another reason why democracy kicks ass.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Daiquiri
Summer is here, and that means it is time for a Daiquiri. The daiquiri is an adult drink. It's a drinkers drink. Ordering a mojito automatically makes me judge you a little. Ordering a daiquiri makes me respect you a lot. I mean, Hemingway drank daiquiris. Need I continue?
The best part about the daiquiri is that it is not fancy, not difficult to make, and yet so easy to drink.
1.5 oz white rum
3/4 oz simple syrup or a level tablespoon of sugar
1/2 oz of lime juice (which is often about the juice of a half a lime)
Combine in a mixing tin and shake the hell out of it.
Serve straight up.
Sit back and sip with care. These things go down so easily, you could be lounging next to the pool in the porcelain in no time.
The best part about the daiquiri is that it is not fancy, not difficult to make, and yet so easy to drink.
1.5 oz white rum
3/4 oz simple syrup or a level tablespoon of sugar
1/2 oz of lime juice (which is often about the juice of a half a lime)
Combine in a mixing tin and shake the hell out of it.
Serve straight up.
Sit back and sip with care. These things go down so easily, you could be lounging next to the pool in the porcelain in no time.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
All Those Years Ago
Well now! I haven't posted on this blog in about a year now. I've grown up a bit, I'd like to think. Going back into my own archives, I'm tickled by what I read. It really doesn't feel like yesterday. It feels like a different lifetime. A different person! But, I can close my eyes and remember those days perfectly. (Look at me. "Those days". Like I'm talking about 20 or 30 years ago. It was 4 years ago! It puts things into perspective, I guess).
Reading these posts now, it reminds me of something from my "youth" (I'm only 26). Whenever I was being a little asshole to my mother, she knew just how to get under my skin. She knew the one thing that she could say that would trump all other arguments. The one thing that would end the session.
"Matthew, you're so young."
I can't describe how pissed off I would get after hearing that. Here I was, a moderately well traveled boy who had gone to college, gone to Europe, been on my own-- and I'm accused of being "young"!
She was right.
Reading these posts, I can't get over how young I sound. How vulnerable! How willingly vulnerable! I really let my life pour out on to those posts. I couldn't fucking imagine writing some of those things today. Details of my romances (or lack thereof)? My idiosyncrasies and idle thoughts?
Growing up, to me, seems to be about becoming more guarded. More analytical. More careful. I have a better filter now. I look before I leap. I don't quite wear my heart on my sleeve, as I used to. All those cliches. The change is motivated by a combination of trying to be more professional, more selfless (well, that's a tad dramatic. Let's go with "trying not to be an asshole"), trying not to hurt others, and trying, myself, to be better protected against insult and injury. I don't want to be ridiculed, so I am careful with what I say (and in the case of this blog, where I say things). I have my moments where I forget that I'm supposed to be "mature", and that's usually when I end up putting my foot in my mouth.
I like how elderly people revert back to their youth, lose the filter and start saying whatever the hell they want to say. Insults are not important anymore, as they've all been heard by that time. Plus, we're all gonna die sometime, so we might as well start telling it like we see it. It's a wonderful cycle.
Well there you go. I opened up! Maybe somethings haven't changed. Maybe I am still so young.
Reading these posts now, it reminds me of something from my "youth" (I'm only 26). Whenever I was being a little asshole to my mother, she knew just how to get under my skin. She knew the one thing that she could say that would trump all other arguments. The one thing that would end the session.
"Matthew, you're so young."
I can't describe how pissed off I would get after hearing that. Here I was, a moderately well traveled boy who had gone to college, gone to Europe, been on my own-- and I'm accused of being "young"!
She was right.
Reading these posts, I can't get over how young I sound. How vulnerable! How willingly vulnerable! I really let my life pour out on to those posts. I couldn't fucking imagine writing some of those things today. Details of my romances (or lack thereof)? My idiosyncrasies and idle thoughts?
Growing up, to me, seems to be about becoming more guarded. More analytical. More careful. I have a better filter now. I look before I leap. I don't quite wear my heart on my sleeve, as I used to. All those cliches. The change is motivated by a combination of trying to be more professional, more selfless (well, that's a tad dramatic. Let's go with "trying not to be an asshole"), trying not to hurt others, and trying, myself, to be better protected against insult and injury. I don't want to be ridiculed, so I am careful with what I say (and in the case of this blog, where I say things). I have my moments where I forget that I'm supposed to be "mature", and that's usually when I end up putting my foot in my mouth.
I like how elderly people revert back to their youth, lose the filter and start saying whatever the hell they want to say. Insults are not important anymore, as they've all been heard by that time. Plus, we're all gonna die sometime, so we might as well start telling it like we see it. It's a wonderful cycle.
Well there you go. I opened up! Maybe somethings haven't changed. Maybe I am still so young.
Hey, Hey, The Gangs All Here!
Syrian "armed gangs" are to blame for a bus ambush.
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/05/201158214750476376.html
"Armed gangs" are to blame for killing 120 security forces.
http://www.businessinsider.com/syria-claims-armed-gangs-killed-82-police-men-in-response-to-assads-crackdown-2011-6
In April, "tribal leaders" were threatening rebels in Misrata, Libya to lay down their arms.
http://www.haaretz.com/news/international/libya-tribal-leaders-try-to-convince-rebels-to-lay-down-arms-1.357898
And now in Yemen, "Islamist gangs" have captured several towns.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/27/world/middleeast/27yemen.html?_r=2&hp
I hate useless labels. They are meant to scare, or they can be used as a substitute for lack of information. A perfect example is the word "terrorist". It's empty! It means very close to nothing. Ready for a curveball? How about the word "patriot"? Define patriot. I'll give it a shot: "One who exemplifies and embodies the values that a certain nation or country holds as central to its identification". Pretty good.
Here's the rub. To many, Sarah Palin is a patriot. To others, John McCain is a patriot. Still others say that Barack Obama is a patriot. John Brown, Abe Lincoln, Robert E. Lee, Herber Hoover, General MacArthur, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton (your choice), Bush (the latter). All have, I imagine, at one time or another been called a "patriot". I'm also reasonably sure that all have at one time actually been called a "traitor" or a "disgrace".
Calling somebody a "patriot" reveals more about the speaker, the one who is doing the labelling, than it does about the one who is labelled. Calling somebody a patriot means that they embody the ideals that YOU hold sacred or important. It says very little about the "patriot" themselves.
I find that the same holds true for words like "terrorist". The worn cliche of "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter" is apt.
In the previous news articles, the use of the phrase "armed gangs" straddles the "lack of information" and "fear" categories. I also find it pretty laughable. I will gladly admit that I derive actual pleasure from the Syrian government's use of the phrase. As if the world has descended into this Mad Max dystopia where armed gangs rove the streets of Daraa, randomly killing security forces and strapping them to the fenders. The gangs have no names and no motives, except their thirst for vengeance! And gasoline! And victims for the Thunderdome! Ridiculous.
http://english.aljazeera.net/news/middleeast/2011/05/201158214750476376.html
"Armed gangs" are to blame for killing 120 security forces.
http://www.businessinsider.com/syria-claims-armed-gangs-killed-82-police-men-in-response-to-assads-crackdown-2011-6
In April, "tribal leaders" were threatening rebels in Misrata, Libya to lay down their arms.
http://www.haaretz.com/news/international/libya-tribal-leaders-try-to-convince-rebels-to-lay-down-arms-1.357898
And now in Yemen, "Islamist gangs" have captured several towns.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/27/world/middleeast/27yemen.html?_r=2&hp
I hate useless labels. They are meant to scare, or they can be used as a substitute for lack of information. A perfect example is the word "terrorist". It's empty! It means very close to nothing. Ready for a curveball? How about the word "patriot"? Define patriot. I'll give it a shot: "One who exemplifies and embodies the values that a certain nation or country holds as central to its identification". Pretty good.
Here's the rub. To many, Sarah Palin is a patriot. To others, John McCain is a patriot. Still others say that Barack Obama is a patriot. John Brown, Abe Lincoln, Robert E. Lee, Herber Hoover, General MacArthur, Nixon, Reagan, Clinton (your choice), Bush (the latter). All have, I imagine, at one time or another been called a "patriot". I'm also reasonably sure that all have at one time actually been called a "traitor" or a "disgrace".
Calling somebody a "patriot" reveals more about the speaker, the one who is doing the labelling, than it does about the one who is labelled. Calling somebody a patriot means that they embody the ideals that YOU hold sacred or important. It says very little about the "patriot" themselves.
I find that the same holds true for words like "terrorist". The worn cliche of "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter" is apt.
In the previous news articles, the use of the phrase "armed gangs" straddles the "lack of information" and "fear" categories. I also find it pretty laughable. I will gladly admit that I derive actual pleasure from the Syrian government's use of the phrase. As if the world has descended into this Mad Max dystopia where armed gangs rove the streets of Daraa, randomly killing security forces and strapping them to the fenders. The gangs have no names and no motives, except their thirst for vengeance! And gasoline! And victims for the Thunderdome! Ridiculous.
What's most laughable is that the Syrian government switched the meaning, or the motive, of the "armed gangs" over the past three months. When the riots first broke out in Syria in March, the armed gangs were killing the rioters. They were, effectively, the opposition to the opposition. Read: it was a label for the security forces of Syria.
But then, in WWE fashion, the armed gangs turned face and started fighting the security forces. In effect, they went from the opposition-of-the-opposition to just the plain old, against-the-government opposition! They switched sides! But, the Syrian government didn't bother to stop calling them "armed gangs". No, images of roving armed gangs is much more sympathy inducing than calling them, oh, "pro-democracy protesters", or (dread the thought) "the people".
http://www.businessinsider.com/syria-claims-armed-gangs-killed-82-police-men-in-response-to-assads-crackdown-2011-6
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Papa
I forgot that I wrote this post, almost a year ago. I'm going to post it now. Not sure why I didn't post it before.
-MR
My grandfather died this past week. He was 84 years old. A soldier in World War II, a father of four, grandfather of many more. Proud, intelligent, and a man of many faults. I called him "Papa". He called me "Matty Matt."
My mother says that I remind her of him in many respects. Not really looking like either of my parents, we can actually trace my looks to him. In our hallway back home, there is a pencil drawing of Artie as a young GI corporal in Italy. I do sort of look like him. Apparently, I also act like him.
I'll remember many things about him. I remember sitting outside with him when we were on family vacation in Florida. The pool in the backyard was surrounded by a pink stucco walkway, and Papa would sit in the stuffed nylon chair beside the white plastic table. He'd sit there, silent, watching my sister and I play in the pool. I liked the smell of his pipe tobacco. He had a leather pouch which he kept the tobacco in, and every once in a while he'd pinch a flaky wad out of the pouch and tamp it with his thumb into his pipe. When he inhaled, the pipe made this calming sucking noise, and then the smell would permeate the air. I liked it. He liked watching the little pool cleaning robot. He even gave it a name-- which I don't remember. "Oscar", or something like that.
His favorite singer was Dean Martin. If I ever mentioned Sinatra, he'd go "Ehhhhhcchh. Deano. He was something special". He spoke of Dean Martin like he was a personal acquaintance.
Papa wasn't necessarily chatty. He wasn't the type to call me over, or "entertain". He preferred to sit quietly. When I asked him what he was doing, he'd reply that he was "thinking." He spent a lot of time "thinking". I never asked him what he was thinking about. But if I had to guess, I'd say the past. He was thinking about Italy-- his favorite country. He was thinking about his youth. The reason I know is that I do the same thing. I always do it. I think about Germany. I think about France. I think about college. I think about past girlfriends and past almost girlfriends. I think of the good times. Luckily, I haven't had many bad times.
I saw Papa cry once. Really, I made Papa cry once. We were talking about the war. Just him and me. We were sitting outside, at the big white plastic table, and I was trying to figure out a way to bring the war up. That sort of thing is fascinating to a little boy (even 25 year old little boys). That's right-- we were playing chess. Papa and I often played chess. Most of the time, he'd bring it up too. He'd ask me if I wanted to play. Of course, I would say yes. Most times, he let me win. But, he'd go through the whole game and tell me what a good player I was. We didn't talk much during our chess games, but during this particular game I wanted to talk about the war. I'm not sure how I brought it up, but somehow I got him talking about it. He told me some stories. Some of them I had heard before. But, after some prodding, he started to tell me a story he hadn't told me before. As I later learned, he hadn't told anybody about this one:
He was on patrol in Italy with his platoon of about 10 guys. They had funny nicknames like "Boofta" and "Big Daddy Jack Rabbit". I'm sure there's a story behind those. Either way, Papa had a nickname too. I forget what he was called. But, I seem to remember it was something like "Johnny". It was a normal name-- just not his name. Anyway, he was on patrol with these guys and they came upon a pillbox-- a fortified concrete bunker, usually with a machine gun inside. Since they couldn't go around the pillbox, they had to "take it out". A flamethrower was called in, but apparently that guy got shot before he could use his flamethrower. Here, I forget what exactly happens, but I remember Papa telling me that the pillbox got hit with the flamethrower and that he ran over to the hatch leading inside the pillbox. He remembered the smoke, the screams, and the smell. Now, Papa started to cry. He fired his rifle blindly into the smoke. I didn't ask any more questions.
-MR
My grandfather died this past week. He was 84 years old. A soldier in World War II, a father of four, grandfather of many more. Proud, intelligent, and a man of many faults. I called him "Papa". He called me "Matty Matt."
My mother says that I remind her of him in many respects. Not really looking like either of my parents, we can actually trace my looks to him. In our hallway back home, there is a pencil drawing of Artie as a young GI corporal in Italy. I do sort of look like him. Apparently, I also act like him.
I'll remember many things about him. I remember sitting outside with him when we were on family vacation in Florida. The pool in the backyard was surrounded by a pink stucco walkway, and Papa would sit in the stuffed nylon chair beside the white plastic table. He'd sit there, silent, watching my sister and I play in the pool. I liked the smell of his pipe tobacco. He had a leather pouch which he kept the tobacco in, and every once in a while he'd pinch a flaky wad out of the pouch and tamp it with his thumb into his pipe. When he inhaled, the pipe made this calming sucking noise, and then the smell would permeate the air. I liked it. He liked watching the little pool cleaning robot. He even gave it a name-- which I don't remember. "Oscar", or something like that.
His favorite singer was Dean Martin. If I ever mentioned Sinatra, he'd go "Ehhhhhcchh. Deano. He was something special". He spoke of Dean Martin like he was a personal acquaintance.
Papa wasn't necessarily chatty. He wasn't the type to call me over, or "entertain". He preferred to sit quietly. When I asked him what he was doing, he'd reply that he was "thinking." He spent a lot of time "thinking". I never asked him what he was thinking about. But if I had to guess, I'd say the past. He was thinking about Italy-- his favorite country. He was thinking about his youth. The reason I know is that I do the same thing. I always do it. I think about Germany. I think about France. I think about college. I think about past girlfriends and past almost girlfriends. I think of the good times. Luckily, I haven't had many bad times.
I saw Papa cry once. Really, I made Papa cry once. We were talking about the war. Just him and me. We were sitting outside, at the big white plastic table, and I was trying to figure out a way to bring the war up. That sort of thing is fascinating to a little boy (even 25 year old little boys). That's right-- we were playing chess. Papa and I often played chess. Most of the time, he'd bring it up too. He'd ask me if I wanted to play. Of course, I would say yes. Most times, he let me win. But, he'd go through the whole game and tell me what a good player I was. We didn't talk much during our chess games, but during this particular game I wanted to talk about the war. I'm not sure how I brought it up, but somehow I got him talking about it. He told me some stories. Some of them I had heard before. But, after some prodding, he started to tell me a story he hadn't told me before. As I later learned, he hadn't told anybody about this one:
He was on patrol in Italy with his platoon of about 10 guys. They had funny nicknames like "Boofta" and "Big Daddy Jack Rabbit". I'm sure there's a story behind those. Either way, Papa had a nickname too. I forget what he was called. But, I seem to remember it was something like "Johnny". It was a normal name-- just not his name. Anyway, he was on patrol with these guys and they came upon a pillbox-- a fortified concrete bunker, usually with a machine gun inside. Since they couldn't go around the pillbox, they had to "take it out". A flamethrower was called in, but apparently that guy got shot before he could use his flamethrower. Here, I forget what exactly happens, but I remember Papa telling me that the pillbox got hit with the flamethrower and that he ran over to the hatch leading inside the pillbox. He remembered the smoke, the screams, and the smell. Now, Papa started to cry. He fired his rifle blindly into the smoke. I didn't ask any more questions.
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