Memorial Day

     I have a great memory. When I was in elementary school, my fourth grade class performed on stage in the Memorial Day assembly. We recited a poem that began “On Memorial Day in peaceful May, we honor the soldiers the Blue and the Gray…”. Yes, that's a Civil War reference (and no, I didn’t go to elementary school in the 1800’s), but the line stuck with me all these years. There have been many wars since then, and America has lost a multitude of soldiers who fought in the name of freedom.

     My father, William Mullowney, was a veteran of World War Two. He survived the war, but he was also a casualty of it. He was underage at seventeen years old when he enlisted in the army, but in 1942, the country was desperate for bodies to help stop the horrors waged by the German and Japanese war machines. 

     He was sent to the South Pacific with his battalion to stem the tide of Japanese insurgence hellbent on controlling every country within their reach. My father told me stories of the war, the one’s he could talk about. On a Philippine island, in a dense jungle, he spent twenty-four hours alone in a tree, locked in gun battle with a solitary Japanese sniper. So close they could look into each other’s eyes and realize they were both there for the same reason and they really didn’t want to shoot one another. Or the time he fell asleep on guard duty and his rifle accidentally discharged, causing a scar on his nose and loss of hearing in one ear. Luckily those were the extent of his war injuries. The physical ones, anyway. 

     He returned home from the war at age twenty-one, and the war came home with him. Some things could not be forgotten despite the victory celebrations and the happy-days-are-here-again mentality that ushered in a new golden age for the USA. I found out later in his life just how much he was affected by the war when I accompanied him to a doctor's appointment at the Veterans Hospital in Boston. He had some health issues and during his examination the doctor asked him about his sleep patterns at night. He replied, “Every night when my head hits the pillow, I relive the entire war, from the day I enlisted to the day I came home.”

     “Would you like to talk to someone about that?” asked the doctor.

     “No. I’m fine with it,” my father said.

     But obviously he wasn’t. That explained the random flashbacks and the heavy drinking. But nothing he did for the rest of his life could erase the memories. War does that to a person, it changes you fundamentally. And the scores of friends who didn’t make it back remind you how “lucky” you are. Lucky to be alive even though you spend the rest of your life trying to forget.

     Sadly, my father passed away in 2011. He’s buried in the Woodlawn Cemetery in Everett in a section that doesn’t allow headstones. He has a flat bronze marker with his name, date and an inscription that reads “World War Two Veteran”. The plaque doesn’t do justice to the hero my father was. There wouldn’t be a memorial large enough to contain his legacy. The way the calendar dates fell that year, his funeral was on Memorial Day. The twenty-one gun salute and the presentation of the flag at the ceremony completed the fitting tribute to this soldier who is now part of history. I think he would be proud to know he was laid to rest on Memorial Day in peaceful May on a day when we honor war heroes who made the the ultimate sacrifice to keep our country free. Rest assured, Papa, you will never be forgotten.

Turkey Trot

   

     The chilly gray weather last week felt more like November than April. After finishing some errands in Melrose, I headed back to Stoneham by way of Ravine Road toward Spot Pond. Mid way up the winding forest road, I passed a large object near the edge of the woods that made me step on my brakes and pull over. I carefully backed up my car to get a better look. 

     There was a huge wild turkey, in full Thanksgiving regalia, standing by the roadside, with tail feathers in full bloom. His chest was puffed out and he stood prouder than a peacock. I got out of my car to snap a photo with my cell phone. The big bird turned and walked into the woods, although “walking” isn't quite the right word. He floated regally over the forest floor like the Goodyear blimp. He moved like a slow-motion tumbleweed. This giant round ball of turkey looked like a grounded Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon that escaped its rope ties and was now drifting through the forest on the breeze. 

I stood at the edge of the woods, mesmerized by the turkey's extraordinary colors – browns, reds, even some blue hues. The bright red hanging gobbler, the orange eyes, and colorful array of tail feathers standing at attention were exactly like the holiday decorations that used to be allowed to adorn the walls in elementary school when I was young.

     I fumbled with my camera, accidentally shooting videos when I thought I was taking still photos. I kept pushing wrong buttons, getting some horrifying shots of my own face when I hit the reverse camera button on my phone by mistake. (Is that what I look like when I take a photo? That screen gem certainly won't be posted on my Facebook page.)

     Determined to get a great photo, I followed the giant, slow moving bird up a trail, deeper into the woods. There were two or three less ornate female turkeys standing in the sticks, blending perfectly with the brown and gray tones of the early spring woods (still no flowering buds in sight, by the way).

The big bird stopped his journey and turned towards me. He was truly majestic. We made eye contact for a second. I thought he would turn away and walk deeper into the woods. Instead he began a slow march in my direction. He eyed me like I was his Thanksgiving dinner.

     I slowly backed down the trail, recklessly clicking photos of branches and dead leaves as I made my way back to my car. I jumped inside my vehicle just in time. The turkey patrolled around my car, looking quizzically at my metal box on wheels. The top of his head was just under my driver’s side window. I swear he was the size of a large beach-ball, about 3 feet in diameter. 

     Other cars pulled over behind me to watch this amazing creature strut around in his finery. The bird had no fear of the line of SUVs encroaching on his habitat. I rolled my window down to speak with the driver who stopped across the road. 

     “That turkey is HUGE!” I said, sounding like Captain Obvious.

     “And bold!” replied the woman behind the wheel of her SUV. “Look at him!”

     I turned around to see the turkey using its sharp beak to puncture the tires of the car parked behind me. I witnessed a full scale raging turkey attack. The giant bird pecked and scratched tires of the SUV behind me. After accidentally snapping a few quick photos of the interior of my car (hey I tried), I decided it was time for me to go. Cars were passing each other and zigzagging on the wrong side of the road to get away from this killer turkey was out to get revenge for 400 years of Thanksgiving dinners past.
     I locked my car doors, stepped on the gas and zoomed up the hill toward Woodland Road . I watched the chaos behind me unfold in my rear view mirror. I wondered if the carnage of this turkey terrorist would make headlines in this week’s newspaper, or at least a viral video on YouTube.