Tales from the Tree

Richie Addison and I had known each other since middle school, buddies through our high school years, as well as his short time at university. He volunteered for ‘Nam when many guys our age honed their skills at artful dodging – including one who never inhaled, while some other jumped ahead of the line into the fly-boy reserves, a non-combat bailiwick in the ’60’s and 70’s. Still another claimed to suffer the terrible misfortune of grievously debilitating bone spurs, existent or not.

~

Hey, Richie. Veterans Day again, the fall colors are just about faded. Thought I’d drop by, say hello. Been visiting my parents and brother a few sections over.

The times were certainly a-changing back in the “Age of Aquarius.” Memories are funny things; what percolates to the top, anyway. Got to give Dad credit, though, pretty open-minded for an old, jarhead gunny. He considered you my close “Negro” buddy, a term of respect in the good, old ’60s. “Black” in those days was a no-no. An insult, actually. Yes, indeed, how things can change.

Hey, you ever stop grinning about Obama’s presidency? Man, oh man, did that shake up the bigots. Too short-lived. The presidency is theirs again, alas. For now, at least, in the ebb and flow of politics, of life really.

Peaceful here where you rest along the southern fence of the cemetery perimeter. The trees add a sense of seclusion among the other ranks of mostly un-shaded headstones, shining in the bright sunlight, row after row. A stirring sight, sad, too, at the thought of their sacrifices, your sacrifice. During my summer visits, the tree shade around your headstone softens the sun’s touch, protects the grass carpeting your grave. I prefer my spring visits, though, a time when life swells, a time of blossoms, the earth’s reawakening.

A delicate coat of green moss, velvet-like, blankets the back of your headstone facing the fence. Not exactly regulation. They’ll get around to cleaning it someday. To tell the truth, I like it. The moss fades, almost disappears beneath the onslaught of winter, unlike the memory of you. Not for those of us left behind who may still call you son, brother, a friend, comrade-in-arms. You remain in our hearts, our thoughts. Always.

KIA and PH are engraved at the foot of your headstone. They speak much about you, your character. A good Marine. A warrior. A hero. Thought of yourself as just a “regular” jarhead. Though, knowing you, a damn good regular jarhead. Patrolling in-country certainly demanded a lot more than regular courage, amigo. A hell of a lot more. You protected the jarheads in that firebase with your life.

So many recollections of you rattle around my head, Richie. A good buddy, your wry sense of humor, quick to help a friend. Yeah, you grumbled. We all did, passing ourselves off as the coolest of dudes. Your actions spoke a hell of a lot louder. Quick to tease, to laugh at yourself especially. Quick on the handball court. Were you ever defeated at Jamaica High School? I can’t recall–so many years.

Through the decades, I’ve shared many stories about you and our “basement” buddies. How you were one hell of a receiver, too. Remember those “older” honchos? Right. Early twenties maybe. Maybe. They drove by, spotted the bunch of us, eight, skinny-ass teens in the middle of a touch-football game. Winning their bar league’s flag touch title had swelled their heads. They stopped to teach us a lesson how the game should be played. We insisted on “no blocking” touch-football, not the flag version they were accustomed to.

Surprise, surprise! They didn’t know what hit them. Our guys had played together, for and against each other for years, anticipated each others moves almost telepathically, no hesitation. Your speed and cuts, low to the ground, baffled the bar league champs. The last play was broken, so you faked left, spun as if expecting the ball. I threw a long slow bomb to the right corner of the goal line, your real destination, where you on the run, back toward me. The “champs” big defensive guy, angry as hell, his team now three touchdowns behind, smashed you into the grass and dirt. So much for “no touch” touch football.

You bounced off the ground, as if from a trampoline, fired the football into his chest and went for him, big guy or no big guy. After breaking up your Big Guy Melee, their tripping and blocking soon ended the game. I can still see the shit-eating grin on your face as the bar guys drove-away pissed-off, their arms extended, tossing the bird out their cars’ windows at us.

Hey, remember the tennis racquet and Lee Patrizio , maybe six-two, and you, what, five-eight? Mutt and Jeff. During our polka game, he volunteered to do a pizza run. You were short, asked Lee to cover you. Oh, how he loved busting chops. Truthfully, we all busted each others chops at one time or another. He smiled sardonically and said, “No way Josè.” As he walked out the entrance to our basement “club house”, a former laundry room, you shouted, “Come on, Lee. How many times I cover you. Don’t be such a dick!”

Lee returned from the pizzeria with everyone’s slice but yours. Oh, boy.

All of us watched. You didn’t utter a word. Your jaw tensed, as you slowly got to your feet from the beat-up couch – a discarded relic from the curb – and walk oh-so-casually to grasp the tennis racquet, an old-time wooden version, also “recycled.” Sure, a few strings were unstrung. So what? Racquet in-hand, you gradually walked away, out of sight.

When the lights blinked-out, Lee knew exactly why. His whisper of “Uh, oh” was heartfelt.

The rest of us uttered nothing, un-moving, tensely still in the silent, pitch black of the club house. Lee sprung-out of his seat, stumbled over bodies, headed for the exit from our “club house”. He charged out the entrance and up the single flight of stairs to street level as if the hounds of hell were on his tail. Only one hell-hound, though, a terrier, chasing a mastiff down the street, the racquet’s string face bouncing off the top of Lee’s skull. His echoing shouts of “Shit, Richie. Stop, stop!” floated off into the distance.

How many times over the weeks and months did tears of laughter erupt if any of us mentioned the words “tennis racquet, anyone”?  Lee’s laughter was the loudest.

Teenage males, they are a wonder, indeed.

Rest in peace, amigo. Keep guarding Heaven’s streets. My best to Roger Healy. Not too much time left until the rest of us start showing up. That grin of yours will be great to see again.

I’ll bring the football.