Writers Corner for November 18, 2011

WE WHO WAITED

I stood at the window watching for the postman. It had been weeks since I had heard from Bill. Our daughter was 6 weeks old, and I didn't know if he would ever know the joy of holding her in his arms, to feel her softness, and smell the sweetness.

She is so beautiful lying there in her crib, peacefully sleeping so innocent of the turmoil of war.

I see the postman down at the corner, shoulders stooped more than the weight of the pouch that he carried. Slowly criss-crossing the street delivering his packets of mail and picking up the letters tucked outside the mailboxes. The burden of the war hung heavily on his shoulders, he deserved the retirement that war had cheated him from. He did have the satisfaction of delivering long-awaited letters but the sadness of the "no letter" days was overwhelming. Most onerous of all was the delivering of the War Department telegrams. Today he seemed to walk even slower, his shoulders even more slumped as he criss-crossed the street, making his way up the hill. Was it my imagination? Was the knot in the pit of my stomach confirmation of my fears? Some days, I could imagine a bounce in his stride. Those were the days that he had a letter for me.

Finally the postman was crossing the street and coming up our walk. I opened the screen door quickly, shutting it softly behind me, so as not to disturb my infant's sleep. I met him half-way down the steps. Silently, with great reluctance, glancing up, he held up the mail to me. There on top was the dreaded yellow envelope.

I sank to the steps ripping it open, spilling the rest of the mail in my haste. I read, "Regret to inform you - your husband on nine September seriously wounded in action in North African Area. - You will be advised as reports of his condition are received." - The Adjutant General.

Tears began to flow as I handed the postman the telegram. He stood silently waiting. He seemed to take so long reading, maybe it was a mistake, maybe it belonged to someone else. No, we had the only star in the window on our block.

He handed it back to me along with the torn envelope and said, "Will you be alright?" He said it as if he were saying, "If you need me, I will stay." I looked in his eyes and saw my grief mirrored there and nodded answering him through tears, "Mother's home." He turned, giving his mail pouch a slight lift and became the postman on his route. I just sat there watching him leave the mail next door and begin his criss-crossing of the street to the corner where he disappeared into the next block.

Numbly, I picked up the scattered mail long with the fragments of my life. Quietly I opened, entered and shut the screen door to face reality and the interminable waiting for the "we will inform you as reports of his condition are received."

- Earlene McFadden, Coeur d'Alene

•••

THE OLD SOLDIER

My father was a soldier

'An airman' he would rage.

He left to fly 'The Hump' you see

At nineteen years of age.

From Bombay sand to China land

Upon that route he flew.

His airborne ships would fly round trips

That numbered ninety-two.

Few could cope or know the scope

Of what those flights would mean.

Four thousand men would meet their end

In mountains high between.

The sixth of June would come so soon.

On D-day, Dad turned twenty.

Flags unfurled across the world

And in the land of plenty.

Too young for beer he'd only cheer

For victory abroad.

He'd fly away again that day.

Co-pilot was his God.

For twenty years and many fears

With A-bombs as his cargo.

He'd make his wager as a Major

'Til freedom's next embargo.

Six children now since wedding vows

Years married: sixty-four.

That's not too bad for one just glad

To make it through two wars.

This Veteran's Day again we pay

This homage to no end.

We thank anew this tribute to

Our father and our friend.

- John Austin, Harrison

•••

CHANGING HUES

When autumn takes her golden crown

And lays it on the land,

She covers all the green with gold

By gentle wave of hand.

The sky becomes an amber hue

The leaves begin to fall,

The air is crisp, clean and cool

When autumn comes to call.

And I am then reminded

How wondrous is the day,

When summer's green fades into gold

When autumn comes to stay.

- Linda Nelson, Coeur d'Alene

•••

The Press Writers Corner features original, creative writing submitted by our readers.

Send your Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, [email protected].

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814.