Homecoming
The old man sitting on the bench in the Courthouse Square seemed to have always been there. The clothes he wore, while clean, were faded to match the old wood and cast iron bench he sat on. If a person were looking across the square they would only have noticed the old man if he moved and caught their attention. He blended in like the bronze statues at the Memorial for war veterans he was sitting near. Occasionally he would look up across the square as though looking for something he expected to see and then would look back down at the paving stones under his feet.
Sometimes when a family was picnicking in the square with a blanket spread under the huge oak trees, one of the children would run near the old man, or would be walking carefully on top of the narrow border between the paved walkway and the grass. When that happened, the old man would look up at the child and move his hand in a little wave, not wanting to move too suddenly and startle the child, or scare them. Once in a while one of the children would respond, but usually when the parents saw the children near him they would call them back with an emotion filled voice. The old man would look at the parent and slowly shake his head and then go back to looking at the stones.
On bright sunny days the pigeons would gather in the park-like setting of the square and walk around bobbing their heads, looking for any morsels they could peck at and pick up. They would flutter from bench to bench checking each carefully for crumbs or popcorn left over from the fair of the previous weekend. When they reached the bench the old man sat on, they would walk up carefully while looking at him, almost as though they were reluctant to disturb the old man’s reverie by moving too quickly. When he noticed them he would slowly move one hand to his jacket pocket and bring forth a handful of crumbs. Making a careful sweep with that hand he would spread the crumbs in front of him in an arc with the crumbs spread out as evenly as if they had been cast from a mechanical spreader. Only then would he sit more upright and allow a slow smile to come to his face. This was a ritual that had been established over many months, no, years, of visits to the square. It was one of the few bright spots in the life of the old man and he was reluctant to spoil it in any way. There was an understanding between the pigeons and the old man that would not have been obvious to a casual observer. The pigeons knew when he arrived in the park how it would play out, as did the old man, but neither wanted to spoil it by rushing into it.
After the ritual was complete, the pigeons moved on and the old man sat up a little straighter. Pulling a long chain out of his jacket pocket, he retrieved an old pocket watch that looked to be as old and faded as the man himself. He caressed it the way a mother or father would their newborn child and pushed down on the stem to open it. When it opened he looked first at the inside of the cover which held a picture of a young woman and reaching out one finger, traced the outline of the woman’s face. His eyes clouded up and closed briefly while his finger rested on the picture. Looking at the other side, he read the time and then carefully wound the piece with a slow rhythmic twisting of his thumb and forefinger. It looked as smooth as a dance that had been practiced to perfection. Only the repetitions of a lifetime could produce such a fluid, graceful motion.
Closing the watch, the old man slowly stood up from the bench. In truth, it was more like he unfolded from the bench. His motions were as fluid in rising as they had been when spreading the crumbs out for the pigeons, or winding the watch. It seemed incongruous to see an old man standing up gracefully, but it was the way the old man had practiced for years. He never did two things in close order. He reached, then grasped, or stood, then turned to step. It was this smooth transition that gave the old man’s movements such fluidity. No one knew the effort required to move so gracefully. The old man never shared much with people he came into contact with and kept to himself most of the time. Stepping carefully, the old man crossed the walkway to the statues in front of the Memorial. He looked into the bronzed faces searching out every detail in each face. The soldier in the middle was looking up into the sky and involuntarily the old man looked up also. Shaking his head and giving just a little chuckle, he patted the soldier on the shoulder as though comforting a friend from long ago. He looked down at the soldier on the litter at the bronze man’s feet and reaching down brushed off some white blotches left there by the pigeons since his last visit. He slowly knelt down and with practiced motions appeared to be straightening the soldier’s clothes and adjusting the bandages on his leg and shoulder. Seeming satisfied, he stood and looked intently at the third bronze figure. The third man had a bag hanging over his shoulder and looked as though he had the weight of the world resting on him. Every feature and every line of his face showed exhaustion. He appeared to be leaning slightly on the taller, solid man in the middle. The bag he carried had a cross on the cover and was cradled in the crook of the man’s arm. The old man drew himself erect and faced the three men squarely on. He slowly raised his arm and lightly touched his brow with the forefinger of his right hand with the other fingers and thumb lined up neatly in a row.
Turning away the old man slowly walked along the outer pathway that would bring him to the crosswalk in the middle of the block. As he did a bus pulled up to the curb just in front of the crosswalk. The old man smiled and nodded, but did not pick up his pace. It seemed he knew exactly when and how things would happen. As he walked toward the crosswalk, people began to step down from the bus and turn to the driver who had positioned himself next to the baggage compartment between the axles of the bus. The driver would smile and nod and retrieve whichever bag they indicated was theirs. Each passenger then hurried off toward whomever had come to pick them up, or across the street to the bus station. At almost the same moment the old man reached the front of the bus, a young soldier stepped carefully down from the bus, with his duffle slung over his shoulder. The young man stumbled slightly and the old man reached out to steady him. When the soldier looked up and started to say Thank You, the old man nodded his head in a No and handed the young soldier a carefully wrapped small package he drew out of his left pocket. The young man looked down at it and accepted it with a puzzled look. Making an impatient movement like tearing something open, the old man pointed to the small package, smaller than a pack of cigarettes. The young man carefully opened the wrapping to reveal a carefully made triangular wooden case, with a small precisely folded American Flag encased within. He looked at it with a startled expression and looked up at the old man searching for an explanation in the old man’s wrinkled face. The old man simply drew himself up straight and saluted the young soldier. Turning he walked away across the crosswalk and around the corner. He moved more quickly than he had previously disappearing quickly into the fading daylight.
The young soldier stood in amazement with the case in his hand. Turning it over, he read the carefully carved inscription. He looked up at the bus driver with a question in his eyes and was about to speak when the bus driver quietly said, “I don’t know who he is. I only know he has met almost every bus I have stopped here with for longer than I can remember. What I don’t understand is how he knows when there will be one of you on board. He never is here unless there is a soldier, sailor, flyboy or Marine on the bus. And he hands every one of you the same thing. What does yours say on the back?”
Looking down at the case in his hand, the young man read out loud, “Welcome Home and God Bless You Son.”
“That’s what they all say, every one of them, for all these years,” replied the bus driver.
To be continued.
3/20/11 by Grandpa Shooter
