Reluctant Warriors by Jon Stafford Read Free Book Online Page B

of
us. One day went into another, and then the years rolled by and he would come, in
all kinds of weather, always with the same innocent look on his face, just wishing
to see Margaret Ann. He brought her a present everyday he came! Oh, I can’t think
of that without chocking up a little. They were just simple things, a flower, a dandelion,
or a little figurine. Every day! He would hold it in front of him as I opened the
door. Margaret Ann kept them in a drawer for years and years, until the dandelion
petals had long since turned to dust.
    His attraction to Margaret Ann was just the natural love God intended the male and
female relationship to have.
    “Mom,” as he lovingly called me. “I liked to see her, her form, her silhouette, how
those old print dresses hung on her long before she had any figure at all, how she
holds her head, how she leans forward ever so slightly when she walks. I like her
hair, and how her face scrunches all up when she’s asleep, and how she holds the
girls in her arms.”
    They were lovers, and best friends, one of those lucky couples who grow closer as
the years passed, can talk rather continuously about almost nothing, producing a
contentment and joy in both. Their lives together were like an endless summer.

    Claire had teared reading the narrative and was surprised as it ended so abruptly.
Then she noticed a sentence at the bottom that explained it: “Your grandmother is
tired now and needs to rest. I will send this on to you. Good luck with the service
and all. Lou.” She nodded thanking her grandmother and feeling a little pressure
knowing what was ahead of her. In only three hours she stood in the church where
she had grown up, and walked to the podium on this very hot day to deliver her eulogy.
    “As with everything else he did,” she began, “whether it was being a pilot or executive
or husband, Daddy was a wonderful parent as well. He was always there for us girls.
When we were sick, he would come and sleep on the floor next to our beds just in
case we might cry or need comfort. When we were older and asked him if he was uncomfortable
when he slept on the floor, he had a standard answer.
    “‘It sure beats the cot I had at Nadzab.’
    “It took me years to realize that Nadzab was a base he was assigned to in New Guinea
during the war. Many a time he would pick us up unannounced from elementary or middle
school. He would say, ‘I just missed you and wanted to see you!’
    “We thought every daddy was like that.
    “He scratched our backs almost every chance he got, a sweetness we have passed on
to our own families. He called it ‘tickling’ but it was really caressing, running
his right index finger over our faces. He had a real knack for it. He could caress
Mama’s face and pretty much rid her of the migraine headaches she occasionally suffered.
And always, he said sweet things to all three of us at every turn.
    “He told Mama, ‘I never wanted to let a chance go by to be sweet to my sweethearts,’
and that was the way it was.
    “He pursued no other interests for himself until we girls were grown. As his time
permitted, he met our teachers, took us to Miss Farmer’s for ballet lessons, even
went to play rehearsals, and anything else that came up.
    “And he was very funny too. He always had jokes to tell us. We came to learn that
he tested his material on us, and if we liked them, he would put them in his seemingly
endless talks before groups or conventions. They were never pointed, or gender sensitive,
just good wholesome jokes which never hurt anyone’s feelings. We never had any idea
where he got them, or if he made them up himself. In my career as a writer of two
novels on the World War II generation, I have actually used some of his stories for
my main character, based on my dad. Here are two I heard him deliver which the audiences
particularly liked. The first he told in Raleigh at a convention when he was introducing
a candidate for political office.
    “The