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 three future presidents. Bone spurs, anyone?

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Veterans Day again, Richie; the fall colors are just about faded. Thought I’d drop by, been visiting my parents and my brother Tim a few sections over. Also been staring across the rows and rows of headstones. Can’t help but recall you and the times. Memories, though, are funny things. What percolates to the top, anyway. So long ago, that so-called “Age of Aquarius.”  Yep, the times were certainly “a-changin'” back then; changes we thought were etched forever in our lives, our culture, our country.

Reality has other plans, isn’t that the truth?

Hey, you ever stop grinning about Obama’s presidency? Man, oh man, did that shake up the bigots. Too short-lived, though. The presidency is theirs again, alas. For now, at least, in the ebb and flow of politics, the ebb and flow 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, so many rows of them. A stirring sight. A sad one, too, at the thought of all the sacrifices, and your sacrifice, especially to me and your close “basement” buddies. The tree shade around your headstone softens the sun’s touch, protects the grass carpeting your grave during my summer visits. I prefer spring visits, a time when life swells, a time of blossoms, the earth’s reawakening.

A coat of green moss, delicate, velvet-like, blankets the back of your headstone, facing the fence. Not exactly regulation. They’ll eventually get around to cleaning it someday but 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, a 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. Knowing you, no doubt a damn good “regular” jarhead. Patrolling in-country 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, so quick to bust each others chops. You were just as quick to laugh at yourself, too. Quick on the handball court, also. Never defeated at Jamaica High School, right? I can’t exactly recall–so many years ago. Through the decades, I’ve shared many stories about you and our other “basement” buddies. Today, the kids would call them “homies,” just a “rose by any other name.”

Memories like how you were one hell of a receiver. Remember those “older” honchos? Right, LOL. Early twenties maybe. Maybe. They drove by, spotted the bunch of us, eight, skinny-ass teens in the middle of a touch-football game. Their winning their bar league’s flag touch title had swelled their heads. They stopped to teach us a lesson how to play the game. Their mistake? We insisted on “no blocking” touch-football. Confidence blinded them and they agreed. Given their size, they probably would have massacred us in 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. The bar league champs were baffled, couldn’t keep up with all our speed, either. The last play was broken, you faked left, spun as if expecting the ball. I knew threw a long slow bomb to the right corner of the goal line, your real destination. You on the run, your back toward me, your head turned, eyes on the ball, you snatched it over your head, no fuss, no muss. The “champs” big defensive guy, angry as hell, his team now three touchdowns behind, smashed you into the grass and dirt.

A big no-no, so much for “no touch” touch football.

You bounced off the ground, as if from a trampoline, fired the football into the guys chest and went for him, big guy or no big guy. After breaking up the melee, followed by the bar champs’ tripping and blocking, the game soon ended. 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-nine, maybe? Mutt and Jeff. During our polka game, Lee volunteered to do a pizza run. You were short on cash, asked Lee to cover you. Oh, how he loved busting chops. Actually, 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 “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. You didn’t utter a word. We watched in silence as your jaw tensed, as you slowly got to your feet from the beat-up couch – a discarded relic we “recycled” from the curb – and walked oh-so-casually to the corner and grasped the tennis racquet, an old-time wooden version, also “recycled.” Sure, a few strings were unstrung. So what? Racquet in-hand, you quietly walked away, out of sight.

When the lights blinked-out, Lee knew exactly why. His whisper of “Oh, shit!” was truly heartfelt.

The rest of us uttered nothing, un-moving and tense, in the silent pitch black of the club house. Lee wisely sprung-out of his seat, stumbled over unseen bodies, and headed for the basement’s exit. He charged out the exit and up the single flight of concrete steps to street level as if the hounds of hell were on his tail. Only one hell-hound pursued him, though – a terrier, chasing a mastiff down the street, the racquet’s string face bouncing off the top of Lee’s skull.

His shouts of “Shit, Richie. Stop, stop!” echoing off into the distance.

Of course, we were laughing our asses off. How many times over the weeks and months did tears of laughter erupt if any of us mentioned the words “tennis, anyone?”  Lee’s laughter was the loudest. Teenage males, they are a wonder, indeed.

Rest in peace, amigo. Keep guarding Heaven’s streets. Give 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.