A Matter of Honor

It was just a field trip. It promised nothing different. We were going to Washington DC with an itinerary and a tight schedule. We dubbed it the “How many monuments can you see in one day tour.” They formed a grand list, each with a paragraph describing the major points and facts, expected arrival time, expected departure time. Clean, sterile, precise. That day we would visit the Washington Monument, the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, the World War II Memorial, the Korean War Veterans Memorial, the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

We piled in the bus and began our day. It followed the normal progression: get off the bus, look around, get back on the bus, and drive to the next location. Standard stuff. That is until we reached the last memorial on the list. Something in the air was different.

As we walked the path, a wall gently rose from the earth. A black wall, etched with names. The names of all the soldiers who never made it home. No one spoke. A hand reached out, touching the wall, tracing a name with a finger. Further along the path, we saw flowers, cards, notes reverently laid at the base of the wall. A veteran in a wheelchair placed his hand on the wall and spoke soft words to his long dead GI buddy. A son leaned forward and kissed the wall where his father’s name appeared.

The wall stretched onward, reached high overhead, every inch packed with a soldier’s name. A soldier who had been someone’s son, grandson or brother. A soldier who was a husband, a father to at child he would never meet. Grown men cried without shame. The impact penetrated our souls. We cried for them, for the horrors they faced, for the sacrifice they made. We cried for the ones they left behind.

The silence followed us back to the bus, and the entire ride home. It was a matter of honor.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

 

Note: Gregarious is one of my all-time favorite words. I wish I could use it, without having to stop and give the definition.

 

 

Meeting Little Man

I was so excited; the day had finally arrived. Grandma and I picked out my favorite dress. The blue pinafore with white rickrack that edged the hem, the neckline and around the two pockets on the front of the skirt. On each pocket was an embroidered strawberry. Those strawberries were beautiful, and I loved how they felt when I petted them with my hand. A white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, white knee socks and my black paten Sunday shoes made me feel extra special.

I held Grandma’s hand as we went down the steep stairs. Grandpa let out a long whistle and declared that I was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

“You ready?” he asked.

I let go of Grandma’s hand, jumped down the last two steps and ran to stand in front of him.

“Ready,” I nodded once.

“See ya later Hon,” Grandpa called over his shoulder and we headed out the door, down the driveway and turned left on the sidewalk. I knew this way took us into town.

I tried not to skip and run ahead of Grandpa, but I was excited so it was hard to walk quietly next to him. As we walked neighbors waved and called out to us to say “Howdy” and ask if we were on our way to meet the Little Man. Grandpa greeted each of them in turn, saying “Afternoon Mable” and “Yes, yes we are”. As we got closer to town, Grandpa stopped to shake hands with everyone we met and answer the same questions over and over. He never got tired of answering, he just smiled as if it was the first time today anyone had asked the question.

I was not as good as Grandpa. When he seemed to be taking too much time, I grabbed on to his shirt sleeve and gave it a tug.

“Oh, oh. Looks like someone’s in a hurry. Best not keep her waiting,” he would say.

“Oh no, Little Man will be expecting you. Best be on your way.” And off we would go once again.

After what seemed like forever we came to a three-story white building.

“Is this it?” I asked. “Is the Little Man here?”

Grandpa chuckled and said this was indeed the place. We hurried inside, up a flight of stairs, and down a hall to stand in front of a big glass window. I grabbed hold of the window sill, jumping and trying to pull myself high enough to see into the window. I was too short to see much. I heard Grandpa’s familiar chuckle behind me.

“Hold your horses. Let me help.”

Grandpa lifted me up on his hip and I gazed at the two rows of little beds behind the window. Each bed held a little bundle wrapped in either a pink or a blue blanket.

“Which one is he?” I asked.

“That’s him. Front and center,” Grandpa said as he pushed his finger up against the glass. He pointed to a little blue bundle that wiggled and squirmed, and I could just make out a tiny pink face. A woman, dressed all in white scurried over and picked up the bundle before stepping closer to the window. I could now see blue eyes in the tiny face staring right back at us, and a mouth opened in a “O” shape. As she moved closer to the window the blanket moved and a perfectly formed little hand popped out reaching for the window.

“Grandpa! He’s just like you.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? Little Man wants to shake your hand.”

“Why, so he does,” Grandpa chuckled. “So, he does. I recon he’s pretty happy to see you too.”

I look at Little Man and reached out to touch the glass, his waving hand just inches away.

“I think I’m gonna like him.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Journey of Fascination

 As a child, I sat spell-bound, listening while Cassandra told tales. Fantastical stories of long ago times in lands that lay far beyond the horizon. Cassandra was of royal lineage, her family betrayed and slain for their power, their land, their people. She was only a child when those loyal to her family smuggled her from the place of her birth. They switched her with another child, passed her off as Cassandra, a willing sacrifice to hide Cassandra’s escape.

Cassandra didn’t tell that story often, there was too much pain knowing she lived only because another died. She could not imagine the cost to the parents and the daily reminder when they looked at her. Still they loved her, protected her and brought her to this kingdom. Neither did she tell the story of the journey that brought her here. Those memories she locked away.

The tales she told were often of her childhood, her family, her beautiful land and her people. I fell in love with those stories. I fell in love with the possibility it might still exist. Cassandra’s stories became my stories, my legacy. On my fifteenth birthday, she presented me with her most precious story and my most treasured gift.

She came to my room before my birthday celebrations began. She held a small golden casket which she placed in my hands. The top of the casket was intricately engraved with the image of a great tree. Each leaf of the glittering tree was depicted with a glowing green emerald. They shimmered as if blown by a gentle breeze. Transfixed, I watched the tree. It seemed real, alive. The wind whispering through the leaves, uttered words I couldn’t quite hear. I leaned in to listen; it was important that I understand the words it spoke.

For a long time, I listened to the tree and the story it told me. When I looked back at Cassandra, I wiped the tears from my eyes and smiled as she embraced me. After the celebrations, I left the palace. The moon was full, and it was an easy walk to my destination. Next to the creek was a small clearing where the moonlight marked the spot. I knelt, placing the casket on the ground in front of me. The song I sang opened the casket, and what lay within, I buried.

The years passed with each birthday marked by a journey to the clearing. At first it had been just a small twig, but it grew taller and stronger with each passing year. As the tree grew, Cassandra’s vigor ebbed. I began to tell her the stories she had once told me.

This year was to be the last. Cassandra patted my hand and blessed me before she closed her eyes, still as death. Once more moonlit lit my path to the clearing and the tree. As I expected, one perfect fruit dangled from a low branch. I reached out caressing it as I bid Cassandra farewell, knowing one day we would meet again. Plucking the fruit from the limb I placed it within the golden casket, locking it away.

I tucked my most treasured gift safely in my pack. The responsibility was now mine. My stories must be told in my land, a land that lay far beyond the horizon.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

There are days when 50 words is all it takes.

His music moved him, colored his soul, transported him. It coursed through his veins, exuded through his pores, infected everyone with his joy. The crowd responded, riding the buoyant waves of music as it swelled lifting them to brilliant heights, opening their eyes. In the music, they united, finding freedom.

(50 words)

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

 

“Why?” Guenter asked.

“I don’t know. It’s always been done this way.” Meg shrank in her seat as she spoke. She knew what would happen next.

“So, this is how it has always been done. Is that any reason to continue doing it this way?”

Meg mouthed the words as Guenter spoke. The man never stopped asking questions. If she was honest, Guenter deserved a little credit. He ran the company better than his father. Guenter had made the company more profitable, created new products and sold new customers while keeping the old ones happy.

Even with all the innovations, and modernistic changes Guenter embraced, he didn’t turn his back on the past. He valued his father’s longtime employees and made sure there was a place for them in his new improved world. Still change was difficult for most people. Meg swallowed and looked Guenter straight in the eyes.

“Well Guenter, why don’t we look? I am sure we can improve the process.”

Guenter beamed at Meg before he threw himself into the job he loved.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer