Chicago, Illinois

March 29, 1950

Father & Son

“Mom, Dad…”

Walter continued to read the evening newspaper.

Lowering her section of the paper, Myra looked at her son.

He’d waited nervously for dinner to end, and had even surprised his mother by helping her clear the table and dry the dishes without being asked. Now that dinner was over and his parents were sitting, relaxed, reading the paper, perhaps now was the best time to tell them. “Uh, me’n’Norman,” taking a deep breath, “have joined the National Guard.” Standing back, he awaited the explosion, but…

“Norman and I!” His mother surprised him by first correcting his grammar, then further surprising him, said, “Your father was in the National Guard years ago. Did you know that?”

“He was?” More than just a little surprised, he looked at Walter. “No, I didn’t know that! Really? You were really in the Guard, Dad?”

“Huh?” Walter lowered the paper. “What did you say?”

Not fully realizing what the National Guard was since the end of the war, somehow thinking of it as a grown-up extension of the Boy Scouts, “Walter,” Myra said, “Mitchell has joined the National Guard.”

“Oh? Did you know I was in the Guard?” Walter asked his son.

“No… Well, yeah, mom just told me. When was it?”

“Years ago, I don’t know, probably when I was, what? Seventeen, eighteen. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Matter of fact, I’ve got a picture somewhere. Myra, where’s that picture?”

“I’m not sure, Walt.”

Going into the dining room, Myra opened the bottom drawer of the built-in hutch—the same hutch cabinet in which, in the recessed top, Mitchell still hid his, by then, vast collection of naked lady tracings, an eight-pager he’d bought from Ronald Muskowitz, and two really good issues of National Geographic—and removed a gray cardboard box, the type of box that originally may have held a man’s suit. Returning to the sofa, she sat down, and her son, breathing a sigh of relief because the news of his enlistment, at least for the time being, had been accepted, sat down next to her.

Removing the top of the cardboard box, Myra laid it on the cushion alongside of her. The box was chock-full of family pictures. Rummaging until she found what she was looking for, studying it for a long moment, she clicked her tongue twice at seeing her forty-four-year-old husband at the age of seventeen or eighteen, then handed the picture to her son.

In faded tones of brown, the picture showed a young man standing in a shooters pose pointing a Colt .45.

Completely surprised by Walter’s appearance, Mitchell looked from the picture to his father—who was sitting upright, watching, waiting to see his son’s reaction—and back at the picture.

The young Walter was wearing an old-fashioned, circa World War One uniform. The khaki, high-peaked, tri-cornered hat was held snugly in place by means of a leather strap held snugly under the point of his chin. He had on a dark khaki tunic, a leather Sam Brown belt and holster, lighter colored khaki jodhpurs, and canvas puttees.

Though Walter was handsome and extremely youthful appearing for his age, looking at him, his son, as most children, could only see an old person, and Mitchell could not equate the picture of this handsome, young soldier—whom, in a modern-day uniform would look very much like he himself looked—to the “old man” that was sitting across from him. He desperately wanted to say something to his father and his mind struggled to find the right words but, “Dad, you used to be so young,” or, “Dad, you used to be so handsome,” seemed to be more an insult than a compliment, so Mitchell hid the shock of seeing his father as a handsome, young soldier behind a bland expression and, unable to articulate what he really felt, looking at the picture, said, “Dad, uh,” knowing he must say something, asked, “how come you never said anything about this before?”

Disappointed by his son’s rather insipid reaction, “Oh, I don’t know,” Walter answered. “It all was so long ago, I guess I just forgot.”

To him, the time spent in his childhood and as a young man seemed to be that of another person and that of another lifetime. Besides, he’d never even considered discussing his early life with his son. After all, how does one intelligently converse with a kid who’d rather read a Superman comic book than Moby Dick?

Seeing this as an opportunity for her husband and son to have, for once, an enlightening, friendly

conversation, thinking that, maybe, they would be better off alone than with her there, standing, Myra said, “Think I’ll check on the kids.”

Feeling deserted, the man and boy watched as she left the room, as though now alone together they must find some basic dialogue, but really, it shouldn’t be too hard now that the father and son finally had something in common to discuss, but…

“Uh,” searching for a way to break the protracted silence, “you weren’t in the war, were you? Uh, the old one?”

Sighing, “No, Mitchell, I was too young for ‘the old one’ and your grandmother wouldn’t let me enlist, and I was too old to be drafted for ‘the new one’ but I could have enlisted anyway… But I had you and your mother to think about, so…” His words trailed off and a faraway, almost pained look came to Walter’s face. “I don’t know.” He sighed again. “I guess maybe I was lucky to stay out of both of them.” Said flatly, without conviction, Walter felt a strongly suppressed urge, as though he’d missed the two great adventures of his lifetime and instead had been relegated, for his entire life, into the drudgery of marriage and parenthood and everyday living.

Seeing the dark look on his father’s face and, as it almost always was, Mitchell thought this look of, what he perceived to be disappointment, was directed at him.

He wanted to ask, “Dad, how were things with you when this picture was taken?” He wanted to ask, “Dad, did you like it in the Guard?” And because at his age even one year made a difference, “Dad, do you think you were seventeen or eighteen when this picture was taken?” Mitchell wanted to talk to his father because then, for the very first time in their lives, they did have something in common… But instead the boy felt the void of distance and years, and so said nothing.

Walter also felt this thin thread of something in common, of some all but forgotten, familiar ground that he’d once tread upon that his son was now treading upon. At this time Walter did feel a strong need to talk to his eldest son about his own younger years, about the years before he became a husband and before he became a father, but…

Walter looked at his son and said nothing.

Mitchell looked at his father and he, too, said nothing.

Neither the father nor the son volunteered to be the first to speak, and after a few inept, prolonged moments, Walter lifted the newspaper, hiding his face, but, not reading, he considered putting the paper down and asking his son if he’d like to talk to him awhile…

But instead, crossing his legs, Walter angled his body away from the boy, seemingly dismissing both his son and the aborted conversation.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa with a faded photo of a familiar stranger in his hands, Mitchell began to feel awkward… In a few moments he put the picture back into the box, put the cover on, stood, crossed the room and put the box back into the bottom drawer of the hutch…

Giving the father an excuse for, once again, losing himself in the evening newspaper…

Giving the son an excuse to leave the room.

April Through July, 1950

The National Guard…

…Was not exactly as Norman had pictured it, although his guess was pretty close, if one considers being off by more than fifty percent, close.

A buck-private’s pay for each three-hour weekly drill session was $2.25; for the two weeks of summer training, $37.50. Again, contrary to Norman, Mitchell immediately discovered that in the Army, or, if you will, the National Guard, the surest way not to get what you want is to want it.

The weekly sessions, though, were not too far off from what he’d expected, being comprised of formation and drill, formation and drill, then later in the evening, after a cigarette break, drill and formation.

Remembering his training at Baylor Military School, the execution of the well-remembered drill commands came easy, and although the twenty-five-pound field pack he was made to wear on his back and the eight-and-a-half-pound Garand M1 rifle he was made to carry on his shoulder became heavier and heavier as the session ground on, Mitchell didn’t mind because being, maybe, just a bit overweight, he considered the time spent in the armory as exercise that the government of the United States was paying for.