Patriots with broken thumbs

I was questioning my own patriotism. I wasn’t sure a red-blooded American would’ve had a spinach fish wrap for lunch on Veterans Day. Yet, as planes flew overhead and the small town parade inched its way down the main drag, that was what sat in my stomach. The least I could’ve done was have a meal with red meat in it. Maybe a rare burger or something. And I called myself an American.

Sated, though, I stood on the sidewalk and watch the parade pass by. Grizzled Vietnam vets rode on Harleys. World War II soldiers sat in the back of convertibles. Girl Scouts walked to their cadence. Each passing group got a round of deserved applause as it passed. I stood with my back against a storefront and thought about my friends. One of them drove humvees through rainstorms of gunfire. Another, a doctor, is there saving lives. One good buddy is on his way back to Iraq for yet another in an endless series of increasingly dangerous tours.

A high school marching band played “Tequila” and I thought about how I could use a shot myself. I wondered about my dad’s buddies. They were Vietnam-era fighters. One drank, the other did not. In more than 30 years of knowing them, I never once heard them talk about their time during the war. There was a time I thought about asking. Now I know that people are quiet for a reason.

A few weeks before, I had taken my son on a hike through the woods. It was a tricky trail, tangled with tree roots and jutting rocks. My son is three and I have eleven lifetimes on him. Neither of us had an easy time standing up. Along the way, we passed a man who could not have been younger than 85. He and his wife moved slowly along the trail. I wondered how they could manage the hike. We stopped to talk and I noticed the man’s cap. He was a veteran, as well. He didn’t talk about his service and I didn’t ask. Instead, he complimented me on getting my boy outdoors. As we walked away, the old man called, “Keep that boy in the woods!”

The parade was nearing its end when a group passed by on foot. The group was made up of of young and old, male and female, and just about every other descriptor you could come up with. They held signs that read, “Support the troops. End the War.”

I nodded to myself as I heard applause begin to rise from the streetside crowd. I was impressed and held a moment of hope that we were all going to be okay. I pushed myself off the wall and headed farther onto the sidewalk. That’s when I saw the 70-something lady a few feet away. She was waving? No, her hand was in the air in motion that is almost universally known to mean, “Get the hell out.”

“Grandma’s a war hawk,” I muttered and started walking back up, almost in step with the “Support the Troops” group. I hadn’t walked a block before I saw another lady–this one closer to 60–literally standing on her chair at a corner restaurant. Her hand was in the air and jerking. Her thumb was pointed toward the sidewalk. That is how some people recognize and honor our veterans. They boo the people who want the war to end.

The parade wasn’t over, but I saw little reason to stay longer. I turned and walked down a side street. If supporting the troops and wishing for an end to war is a reason to boo, I am obviously in the wrong place.

Labels: War