I miss...
the poppy sellers...
When I was a kid, Veteran's Day was something special. The specter of World War Two and Korea was still looming large in the memory of my parents and every other adult I knew and this was a day to take seriously. There was always a parade down the main street of Keansburg, men who were the same age or maybe not so much older than my father (and a few women, too, as I recall) marched with solemn faces and measured steps down the concrete street, led by banners with regiment or unit names, older vets who were the color guard... they wore their dress khakis and shiny silver helmets, bright white belts and white patent leather spats over boots still spit shined to a mirror sheen. They stared straight ahead, jaws clenched, keeping cadence, keeping step. Some shouldered white painted rifles with chromed barrels and locks, they all wore white gloves. We would all stand and salute them, then applaud them, then wave to those who were friends, fathers, mothers, uncles... They were those who came home, who weathered the storm, some whole, some not... some missing limbs or eyes... some missing pieces that couldn't be seen, inside their minds. They were our heroes. They were veterans. And after they passed and the scout troops and brownie troops and the Shriners and the antique cars and the fire trucks and police cars with sirens wailing all ushered by, it was over. Almost. For the rest of the day, no matter where you went, there was a vet standing on the corner, outside the supermarket or the bar or anywhere the public might pass or gather, with a coin container in one hand and a bouquet of paper poppies in the other. And no matter how many you passed, you bought one. And you said, "Thank you..." And you read the little paper tag that hung from the green paper wrapped wire stem that told you that the little paper poppy was made by disabled vets and you felt all hollow and teary and ashamed that you, too, weren't one of them, one of those heroes, one of those sacred vets...
The little paper poppies usually ended up hanging on the rear view mirror or the sun visor bracket of my old man's Chevy coupe, where they would fade in the sun and the heat and the cold, until they were almost ready to fall to pieces. But they would stay there until they were replaced by a fresh bunch the next Veteran's Day, bright red and green, fresh and crisp, unlike the vets who got older and wearier and fewer as the years went by...
It was a habit I picked up from my old man and I never passed a vet selling them without buying a few and saying my thanks, but, as the years have gone by, I've not seen so many of them. I don't know where they've gone... maybe they've fallen out of vogue, or faded away like the red dye that one time made them so gay, but fell prey to the turning of the year... I miss them...
Anyway, to you vets, old and young... Thank you. Thank you so very, very much.


pearls before swine...